


A Devil Sick Of Sin

by Apollo139



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, House Baratheon, Multi, Original Character(s), Violence, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-06-17 21:06:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15470052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apollo139/pseuds/Apollo139
Summary: Jasper Baratheon, fourth son of Lord Steffon and Cassana Estermont, younger twin to Renly.He will need to contend with shifting loyalties, quarrelling brothers and the treacherous political game of King's Landing to make sure his family survives and the realm prospers. With enemies around every corner, whether they be lions or mockingbirds, vipers or dragons, Jasper must somehow rally his ragged group of loyal supporters into an effective, unified front.Begins pre-A Song of Ice and Fire.





	1. Chapter One

285 AC

 

“Hey, unfair!” Jasper Baratheon complained to his older twin brother. “You cheated!”

“I did not.” Renly looked affronted.

“Yes, you did,” Jasper said, pointing behind his brother’s shoulder to Renly’s sworn shield, Ser Quentyn Rogers. “You had Ser Quentyn block me! I would’ve gotten to the post first.”

“I’m afraid you would not have, brother,” Renly replied, as a haughty as a boy of eight could be. “My skill far outclasses yours…”

“Your skill at cheating! I’m the faster runner and you know it.” He turned to the amused knight behind Renly. “Admit it, Ser. You have intervened in our important race and disgraced your vows in the process.”

“I’m afraid, my prince, that I only followed by sworn liege lord’s orders.” The old knight sighed with fake reluctance, even as his lips twitched.

“Ah!” Jasper grinned, triumphant. “But you admit you intervened on my brother’s command. So, Renly, what say you in your defence?”

“My actions were for the good of the whole of Storm’s End, of course.” Renly explained seriously. “If you had won the entire household would never have heard the end of it.”

Jasper raised an eyebrow. “So, your motives were completely unselfish, were they?”

“Exactly.” Renly flashed a bright, toothy smile. “Also, I won!”

Jasper burst out laughing and Ser Quentyn chuckled as Renly hopped from foot to foot, cheering his victory. The servants and guards of Storm’s End going about their business in the courtyard looked on fondly, used to such behaviour from the two young Baratheons.

As his laughs subsided, he turned to the grizzled knight next to him. “I feel I need a sworn shield myself, Ser, to challenge you. Then, I shall win every race!”

“I look forward to the contest, my prince.” Ser Quentyn smiled at him.

Renly finally calmed down enough to stop before them, red and flushed from his celebrations. His infectious grin, almost a constant feature with Renly, was fixed firmly on his face.

“A ride, Jas?” He asked.

Jasper felt a grin split his face- not quite as infectious as his brother’s, but a wide smile nonetheless; he loved riding, even if Ser Cortnay would only let them ride ponies. “Race you to Lakewood Mill?”

“You’re on,” Renly nodded with excitement.

They both turned towards the stables, but found a tall, steel-clad knight blocking their path.

“I’m afraid, my lord, my prince, that you have your lessons with Maester Symon in ten minutes time,” Ser Quentyn told them, suddenly stern.

“Can’t we skip?” Jasper asked, impishly.

“Please, Ser Quentyn. Just this once, I swear it on the Seven.” Renly added, his large eyes blinking, and mouth pulled into a pout.

“No, my lord,” the knight of House Rogers told them. “The last time you convinced me it did not end well for any of us.”

Jasper winced. Only a moon ago Maester Symon had set him, Renly and even Ser Quentyn to work copying hundreds of letters when they had not turned up to their lessons and had instead explored some of the watery caverns dotted along the cliff face next to Storm’s End. His arm had ached painfully for a week. It was not a pleasant memory.

“Yes, that was… not our finest hour,” Renly grimaced, scratching the back of his head gingerly.

“No, it wasn’t,” Ser Quentyn said, his voice as hard as iron. “We can go riding on the morrow, if you wish it. For now, though, let us make for Maester Symon’s chambers.”

“Actually, Ser Quentyn,” a new voice spoke up from behind Jasper and Renly, “that will not be necessary.”

Jasper and his brother spun round to face the newcomer. Ser Cortnay Penrose, the castellan of Storm’s End and regent of the Stormlands due to Renly’s age, stood before them, a hand on each hip. Ser Cortnay wasn’t yet middle-aged, but several wrinkles could already be seen around his lips and eyes. He sported a full beard, the colour a fiery red, but his head was smooth, devoid of any hair. His expression was serious, though not unkind.

“My lord,” he tilted his head first towards Renly, before turning to Jasper, “my prince. Your presence is required in the council chambers.”

“No lessons?” Renly perked up, even as Jasper grew worried.

“Is something wrong, Ser?” he asked Ser Cortnay as the four of them began the long walk to the council chambers.

“Not as such, no, my prince,” Ser Cortnay said. “But we do have a small bit of news.”

That was all Ser Cortnay would say until they reached the council chambers, located in an antechamber off the main feasting hall, not long after. Within they found the rest of the council seated around a long wooden table.

Maester Symon, a hook-nosed, beady-eyed man originally from the Westerlands, was sat hunched over a sheet of parchment, writing furiously. The Maester was a hard taskmaster, his punishment a moon ago was clear evidence of this, but Jasper liked him well enough. His descriptions of wars long past were riveting, and he even found a way to make the more boring subjects, such as sums or laws, interesting.

Sat next to the Maester was the wizened Harold Mertyns, who had been the seneschal of Storm’s End for close to thirty years. His hair was white and straight, just long enough so that it fell slightly over his clear, intelligent blue eyes. He bowed politely when Jasper and his brother entered.

On the other end of the table, sipping from a jewel-encrusted silver goblet of wine, sat Ser Ormund Estermont. The master-at-arms was Jasper and Renly’s uncle, younger brother to their mother, Cassana Estermont. He was younger than any of the other members of the council, though he still seemed old to Jasper. He winked charmingly at his nephews, and Jasper couldn’t help but smile back in response.

Ser Cortnay sat down next to Ser Ormund and gestured for Renly and Jasper to take the two remaining seats. As Jasper and Renly sat down, Ser Ormund leaned forward.

“Nephews!” He grinned at them. “How goes the day? I trust I’ll you in the training yard later.”

Jasper grinned; he loved learning to fight, even if he was still on the basics. “I wouldn’t miss it, uncle.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Ser Ormund said, proudly, “And you, Renly?”

“I suppose.” Renly sighed, but he suddenly grinned, casting a sly look at his brother. “But I beat Jas in our race!”

“Did you now?” Ser Ormund laughed, as Jasper spluttered in indignation.

“Renly cheated!” He said. “He ordered Ser Quentyn to block me!”

“Well, some would say he used all resources available to him and that was smart.” Maester Symon intervened, as Renly smirked. “Though it was hardly honourable, my lord.”

Renly rolled his eyes, while Jasper stuck his tongue out at him.

“Anyway,” Ser Cortnay spoke loudly, cutting across the disagreement, “we brought you both here to talk about the future.”

Jasper frowned. “The future?”

“Yes, my prince.” Ser Cortnay nodded. He looked around at the rest of the council. “On the behest of your royal brother, King Robert, and Lord Stannis we have recently begun looking into possible fostering opportunities.”

Jasper blinked, then his stomach lurched horribly. “For… for both of us?”

Ser Cortnay shook his head uncomfortably, though it was Ser Ormund who answered.

“No, lad,” he said. “Your brother must stay and learn to rule the Stormlands. Only you will be fostered elsewhere.”

“Why can’t Jas stay here?” Renly asked, angrily.

“Because it is only natural to serve as a page, and then squire, for another lord.” Harrold Mertyns spoke for the first time. “It provides valuable experiences- you will see new lands, my prince, experience new cultures and learn a great many things you never could inside these walls. Why, King Robert himself fostered with the good Lord Arryn and greatly enjoyed his time there.”

“Exactly,” Maester Symon nodded enthusiastically. “It will be a truly unique experience, my prince. By rights, you should have been sent to page a year or two ago, but we have held off until now.”

“Your brother himself has commanded this, lad.” Ser Ormund added.

Jasper couldn’t believe his ears. He didn’t want to leave Storm’s End, despite the arguments the councillors were making. It was his home and he’d have to leave Renly, Ser Quentyn, Ser Ormund, Ser Cortnay- everybody! He wouldn’t even have any friends at wherever he was being sent to. Why did Robert and Stannis want to send him away? He didn’t see his brothers very often- Stannis a little more than Robert- so why do this? Was he being punished?

As Jasper pondered his apparent exile, Renly continued to argue. “He’s my brother and my best friend! I want him to stay here. I won’t have anyone to talk to!”

“I understand you will miss your brother greatly, my lord,” Ser Cortnay said, as Renly scoffed, “but we have taken steps to rectify any loneliness you may feel. Many houses have approached us to foster their children here and we plan to accept at least a few.”

Renly looked excited. “Who? Which houses?”

Jasper was a little hurt at how quickly Renly forgot about his predicament, but he could hardly blame him. Renly loved meeting new people.

“Mostly Stormland and Reachland houses.” Ser Cortnay said. “Morrigen, Swann, Oakheart, and Crane are some of the main houses we are considering.”

Jasper frowned, suddenly angry rather than upset. He was young during the siege of Storm’s End, but he remembered glimpses. Stannis’ grim face, Renly crying, the almost-fate of Ser Gawen Wylde, the dead, bloated corpses and the lavish feasts the Reachlords held right beneath Storm’s End’s very walls, only just out of archer range. Most of all, however, he remembered the crippling, painful sting of hunger, a constant for all within the castle for months.

“Reachland houses?” Jasper asked bitterly. “Why would you invite them within this castle?”

Ser Cortnay looked at him in surprise. “It does no good to hold onto such resentment, my prince.”

“Perhaps almost starving the boy to death is appropriate cause for such resentment, Ser,” Ser Ormund said, with a glower.

“Years in the past, Ser Ormund,” Maester Symon said. “We must look to the future.”

“Aye,” Ser Cortnay agreed, “and it does the young lord good to befriend those from neighbouring kingdoms. We cannot dwell on past grievances.”

“You weren’t here, Ser, nor were you, Maester,” Harrold Mertyns said, his gravelly voice pained. “I remember what they did to us, how we all suffered, including the boys. The pile of corpses we burned every day got so high one night it almost reached the top of the walls. I remember the banner of golden cranes belonging to House Crane amongst that great host, aye, and the oak leaves of Oakheart, too. It does us no good to forget so easily, I think.”

“That said, Harrold, we must move on and will treat the houses who have approached us with respect.” Ser Cortnay snapped, leaving no room for argument.

“I want to meet new people!” Renly grinned. “It’s not their fault anyway, they were just following Lord Tyrell- and he was just following his King.”

“The Mad King,” Jasper said harshly. “How have you forgotten the siege so easily?”

“It was ages ago- gods, you sound like Stannis.” Renly said, waving a careless hand.

“But-”

“Enough, my prince,” Ser Cortnay said, sternly. “It has already been decided. You shall leave in a moon’s turn and we shall welcome the young sons of many lords of the realm into this castle.”

Jasper gulped nervously. He only had another moon’s turn inside his home, at least for many years. That wasn’t long enough, not even close.

After a moment of tense silence, he spoke up again.

“Will you at least tell me where you’re sending me?”

It was Maester Symon who answered.

“On that, my prince, you have a choice.” The Maester said. “We have received many offers since it was made known you would be fostered out. We have narrowed it down to those more politically… desirable.”

“Which places, exactly?” Jasper asked, impatiently.

“Oldtown to serve Lord Leyton Hightower- a truly magnificent place, if you don’t mind my saying so,” The Maester answered. “The other two are Runestone and Lord Yohn Royce or Duskendale and Lord Renfred Rykker.”

Jasper sat back and considered. After all it was the most important decision so far in his short eight years of life.

He could see why each had been chosen- hugely powerful houses, the most powerful bannerman in their area, but not Lord Paramounts, so as not to offend the other Lord Paramounts. Obviously no Dornish houses- he’d be poisoned within the hour-, nor Ironborn Houses (that would just be ridiculous) and the North was too far and had few knights besides, but the exclusion of the Westerlands and Riverlands was more interesting. The Riverlands perhaps had no clear frontrunner between the bannerman so, as not to offend any Riverlords, they’d decided not to pick any Riverland house. The same could be true of the Westerlands, but then again there was plenty gold in sending him to somewhere like Silverhill or Ashemark and houses Brax and Crakehall could easily field the most men out of the Westerland bannermen, so it was not quite the same as the Riverlands. It could be that someone did not want to send him to the Westerlands- Lord Arryn, perhaps his brother, Stannis, or even Robert? Honestly, he didn’t know, and his eight-year-old brain hurt from thinking about it too much.

So, where did he want to go? Not Oldtown, that was for sure. As great as it would be to see the second biggest city of Westeros, with the Hightower, the Starry Sept and the Citadel, living in the Reach so soon after the siege left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t quite hate the Reachmen, but he also didn’t want to go there, at least not yet. So really it was between Runestone and Duskendale. Duskendale, as a city, sounded more interesting and its proximity to King’s Landing and his brothers was a positive but then again… he had heard rumours of Lord Yohn Royce’s exploits during the rebellion and he was a renowned tourney knight. If he wanted to be the best, he would have to learn from someone like that. And hadn’t Robert said the Vale was one of the best places in the world?

All in all, he came to a decision rather quickly.

“Runestone,” he said. “I want to go to Runestone.”

o-O-o

Jasper stared out the small window. His room faced inland, so it was endless hills and rocky outcrops he saw, rather than the ferocious seas of Shipbreaker Bay. He preferred it that way after Stannis had told him what happened to their parents.

Sighing, he looked away and stepped back into the middle of his room. It was a large chamber, with yellow and black draped bed, a low, wooden desk, and several large wardrobes fixed into the wall

opposite the bed. A smattering of toys, from wooden swords to crude carvings of animals and people, were stacked in the far corner, recently tidied by the servants.

A quiet but incessant knocking on his door wrenched him from his reverie.

“Come in,” he called and was unsurprised when Renly marched his way in, Ser Quentyn at his back.

“Jas,” he nodded in greeting. Renly looked around, looking unusually nervous and unsure of himself.

“Anything you needed, brother?” Jasper asked, weariness lacing his tone.

“I, er, just wanted to see how you were doing,” Renly told him.

Jasper tilted his head, a little touched. “Not great, I suppose, but I’ll be okay. Runestone might be fun.”

“It will be!” Renly assured him. “You’ve always wanted to learn from the best and Lord Royce is pretty close to that. Still, it will be boring without you here, even with the others coming.”

“I didn’t know you rated my presence so highly, brother,” Jasper smiled.

“Well, most of the time you’re very annoying, of course,” Renly began.

“Of course,” Jasper agreed, smirking.

“But, at the same time, you can be fun to play with.” Renly said, before adding, “And you’re my brother.”

“Yeah,” Jasper looked down, frowning again. “I’m going to miss Storm’s End.”

“You’ll be back soon,” Renly said with optimism. “And at least at Runestone you won’t have to deal with Harrold’s bad breath!”

Jasper giggled. “And no cheaters, too.”

“Hey!” Renly said with fake annoyance, still grinning. “Unfounded accusations!”

“I’m afraid, my lord,” Ser Quentyn said with apparent reluctance, “I must disagree. It was cheating, plain and simple, I admit it.”

“Ser Quentyn!” Renly cried, with hurt. “How dare you, Ser!”

“Even your sworn knight admits it!” Jasper crowed happily.

Renly clutched the skin and cloth above his heart. “Betrayal!” He called loudly, falling to the ground. “Cruel betrayal! It hurts, by the gods, it hurts!”

Jasper laughed along with Ser Quentyn, but he couldn’t keep the sadness from his expression completely. In just a moon’s turn Renly’s jokes and laughter would be in the past and he would be left entirely on his own.

o-O-o

The entire household gathered to see Jasper off.

He stood before his brother and the gathered staff in the large stone courtyard. Behind him, waiting on their horses, was Ser Nestor Mallery and his squadron of twelve guards tasked with escorting him as far as King’s Landing, where he would take ship to Runestone. It had been decided he wouldn’t sail directly from Storm’s End; Shipbreaker Bay was too dangerous, his parent’s deaths proved that. At least he was allowed to ride a proper horse to King’s Landing. It was a small horse, but still, it was an improvement.

“Well…” he began, before Renly hurtled forward and tackled him with a hug.

“I’ll miss you, Jas,” Renly murmured into his neck.

“And I you, brother,” Jasper vowed, hugging him back.

They broke apart a few seconds later and smiled awkwardly at each other. Jasper coughed a few times and turned to Ser Ormund.

“Best be ready, uncle,” he warned the Estermont. “When I return I shall beat you handily in each and every spar.”

Lord Ormund laughed heartily. “I look forward to it, my prince.”

By the time he’d bid goodbye to Ser Cortnay, Maester Symon, Ser Quentyn, Harrold Mertyns and a dozen others it was mid-morning and they needed to begin the journey. With a final wave to the people he’d been surrounded by and grown up with his entire life, he rode out of Storm’s End’s main gate with thirteen men at his back.

As they crested a hill a few miles away, he turned and gazed upon the glory of his childhood home with tear-filled eyes. He studied it searchingly, trying to memorise its every detail; the massive outer curtain wall of pale grey stone, near one hundred feet high; the great tower, so tall that it seemed to reach the very clouds; the furious waves below, a clear blue that shone brightly in the sun, both dangerous and beautiful.

He swore, on the Old Gods and the New, that he would return as soon as he could, a better and stronger man. It was his home.

But for now, he turned his back on Storm’s End, kicked into the flanks of the small horse below him and set off for King’s Landing.


	2. Chapter Two

King’s Landing came into view three weeks after they’d left Storm’s End.

He’d been once before, for his brother’s wedding to Cersei Lannister, but he hardly remembered it, so the sprawling mass of buildings that greeted him took him by surprise. Even from this distance he could see the red-washed stone walls of the Red Keep atop Aegon’s Hill, a massive fortress that perhaps even rivalled the size of Storm’s End. He caught a glimpse of other landmarks, the Great Sept of Baelor’s marble, slightly delicate-looking, construction contrasting with the hulking dominance of the Dragon Pit on the hill next to it. Thousands upon thousands of buildings, both large and small, surrounded these great structures, connected by cascading clusters of small streets and brimming with hundreds of thousands of people.

“Quite a sight,” he commented to Ser Nestor Mallery beside him.

“As you say, my prince.” The salt and pepper haired knight said blandly.

Jasper sighed. He’d not managed to make the man smile once. He couldn’t help but think Renly would’ve been able to.

They approached the city at a trot. The Kingsroad was packed full of people making their way towards the capitol of King’s Landing, many leading animals and carts likely headed for one of the city’s markets. All parted before them, some looking at the brother of the king and his entourage with fear, some with amazement, a few with resentment.

The closer they got to the city, the stronger the acrid stench assaulting his nose got. Jasper had never smelt something so awful. The stink was so overpowering he feared he might faint by the time they got to the River Gate. He coped by holding a dirty rag over his nose as they properly entered the city, after being waved in by a few gold cloaks. Ser Nestor had handed it to him; the man might be as dour as a doorknob but at least he was prepared.

The ride up to the Red Keep, through narrow, cobblestoned streets, was slower than Jasper would’ve wanted, but eventually they arrived at the large gates of the Red Keep.

“Prince Jasper Baratheon, brother to the king!” Ser Nestor announced to the captain in charge of the gate.

The old man atop the wall ordered the gate lowered, before descending stone steps to meet them on the other side of the wall.

“Welcome to King’s Landing, Prince Jasper,” the gold cloak captain bowed his head, as Jasper rode up to him, across the wooden drawbridge. “Captain Jacor, at your service.”

“Nice to meet you, captain.” Jasper smiled, clambering of his horse. A groom suddenly appeared at his shoulder and he handed the reigns of his horse over, giving the creature that had carried him hundreds of miles a fond pat as he did so.

“Lord Stannis asked me to have you escorted to a visitor’s chamber as soon as you arrived, my prince.” Captain Jacor told him. “I believe he is in a meeting of the small council currently but should be available to see you after that concludes.”

“I see,” Jasper said, wiping his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his tunic. “Thank you for your help, captain.”

“Of course, my prince,” the grey-haired man bowed once more. “If you’d follow me...”

Jasper nodded dumbly, more concerned with looking around at the chaos of the Red Keep’s main courtyard. Servants rushed this way and that on their assigned tasks and a squadron of Lannister guards drilled under the watchful eye of a knight with a bushy moustache on one end, even as a group of guardsmen dressed in the gold-yellow and black livery of House Baratheon marched passed. Another section of the training yard rang with the clash of steel on steel, as a group of knights practiced with one another. Storm’s End could have been a library in comparison.

Captain Jacor caught him looking.

“That’s not even the main yard,” he told the prince. “The training fields lie beyond, behind the Holdfast.”

Jasper grinned; he couldn’t wait to see the spars and jousts. But not now.

“Lead on, captain.”

The twisting corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast were extremely confusing, and Jasper knew he’d never be able to find his way back to the main courtyard. Captain Jacor led him up several flights of stairs, then through a series of turn and across a long corridor, before finally stopping in front of a large, steel-studded door.

“Your chamber’s for the duration of your visit, my prince,” the captain said, opening the door.

Jasper entered and found a similar chamber to his in Storm’s End, if a bit smaller and with a small balcony.

As Captain Jacor left, Jasper realised he Ser Nestor had not followed them up and that he was alone. With nothing to do and no way of knowing how to get anywhere, he sat on the bed with a sigh. Suddenly, he was thankful he’d only be staying here for less than a week.

Hours later Stannis finally arrived.

His brother looked as severe as always, his mouth set in a firm straight line. He was still as tall and broad-shouldered as Jasper remembered him from his last visit to Storm’s End half a year ago. Already balding, the Lord of Dragonstone looked older then his years with his face creased with wrinkles. The lines around his Baratheon blue eyes softened ever so slightly as he looked upon his youngest brother, though he still bore a grave expression. Still, Jasper was happy to see him.

“Stannis!” he yelled, running forward to greet his brother with a hug.

Stannis coughed awkwardly and patted him on the back hesitantly. Jasper saw the two Baratheon guards who had entered with his brother share an amused glance.

“Jasper,” the older Baratheon replied in a deep voice. “You’ve gotten taller.”

“I’ll be almost as tall as you soon!” Jasper grinned up at him and was awarded with an uncertain half-smile. He counted it as a victory. “Is Robert coming?”

Stannis’ face darkened. “No,” he said plainly. “He is… otherwise occupied. You’ll be able to see him tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Jasper frowned, disappointed. “What about today?”

“I have the rest of the day free. I can sure you around.” Stannis took a step back, looking unsure. “That is, if you want to. I’m sure you’d prefer Rob-”

“That would be great!” Jasper interrupted him, beaming.

Stannis blinked, looking a little surprised, which seemed odd to Jasper. He didn’t dwell on it, however.

“Can we go to the training yard first?” Jasper asked, excited. “Captain Jacor said it was huge! I want to see the sword fighting and the jousting. I know they’re just practicing, but they are hardly any knights at Storm’s End.”

Stannis tilted his head. “If you want we can began there,” he said, then frowned. “As frivolous as most of these knights are, it might do you good to see some proper training before you arrive at Runestone.”

“Then let’s go!” Jasper said, taking his older brother by the hand and pulling him towards the door.

“Patience, Jasper,” Stannis warned. “We have plenty of the day left.”

“Fine.” Jasper muttered, sullenly. They left the room at a slower pace, the two guards falling into step behind them. “Why can’t I see Robert until tomorrow?”

“He’s… busy.” Stannis shifted uncomfortably. “Many matters require a king’s attention, a boy your age could hardly understand.”

“Hey!” Jasper raised his little voice in anger. “I’m eight namedays old now!”

“So, you are,” Stannis agreed, a little amusedly. “A veritable adult, I’m sure. Don’t worry, you’ll see our illustrious brother tomorrow. A midday meal is planned to welcome you to the capitol. He’ll be there, along with the Queen, the Hand and some fawning lords, desperate for attention.”

By the end of his comment Stannis’ voice was bitter and Jasper decided he needed to cheer his brother up.

“Race you to the bottom of the stairs!” Jasper called over his shoulder, already racing forward to take the large stone steps in front of them two at a time.

“Jasper!” Stannis’ irritated voice shouted after him.

Stannis didn’t quite race him, but he did have to jog to keep up with his younger brother. It was probably the closest he would get to cajoling Stannis into racing him, so he considered it a job well done. Stannis glared at Jasper when he caught up to him but when Jasper only gave a cheeky sigh in response, Stannis sighed and led the excitable boy to the main training field.

It was just what he’d hoped for. Several groupings of guards- in a mix of Baratheon, Lannister, Arryn, Bolling and Wendwater colours, the latter two likely part of the household guards of Lord Horton Wendwater, the Master of Laws, and Lord Arthur Bolling, Master of Coin. Elsewhere knights and guards alike were sparring, separated into twos with each pair in various stages of combat. Four barriers were set up towards the far end of the field and more than a dozen knights were practicing their jousting there, or else awaiting their turn. The thundering of their warhorses could be heard from all around the yard, mixing in with the clanging of weapons and armour, and cries of pain as injuries were inflicted in the spars. You could almost taste the sweat in the air.

Jasper loved it.

“Where are there so many?” He asked his older brother. “Is there to be a tourney?”

“As much as our brother loves them, no,” Stannis told him. “King’s Landing never has a shortage of glory-seeking young knights and hangers on. During a tourney most must train outside the city, near the tourney grounds themselves there are so many knights.”

Jasper gaped in wonder.

Renly had always loved watching colourful knights, and colourful knights jousting in particular, but Jasper wasn’t really picky. He just wanted to watch people fight.

He would’ve stayed there for hours- he was particularly engrossed in a duel between Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard and a knight with the brown bear paw of House Brune of Brownhollow on his chest- but Stannis managed to drag him away eventually.

Next the Lord of Dragonstone took him to the great hall. The Iron Throne was extraordinary, for sure, but Jasper thought it looked terribly uncomfortable. Stannis showed him the Godswood, the Maidenvault, the White Sword Tower and, finally, the Tower of the Hand. All were incredible in their own way, but Jasper still felt that the training field was his favourite part of the Red Keep.

It was nearing sundown when they descended the steps of the Tower of the Hand after a short talk with Lord Arryn in his solar. The old man had been kind to him, asking how his journey was and whether he was excited to go to Runestone, but he’d seemed tired, the mounds of papers piled on his desk testament how much work he needed to do, and they had left him in peace quickly. Stannis looked mentally exhausted, but Jasper was still as enthusiastic as he had been at the start of the day.

“Do you think the soldiers will still be training in the yard? Can we watch them again?” he asked Stannis, eyes wide with excitement.

Stannis closed his eyes, as Jasper looked at him with anticipation. He waited with bated breath for several moments, while his brother remained silent.

“Fine,” Stannis finally bit out between gritted teeth.

“Yes!” Jasper cheered, as Stannis groaned.

o-O-o

Jasper arrived at the king’s personal dining hall, smaller than that of the great hall and used for more intimate affairs, excited to see his eldest brother for the first time in a year and a half, when Robert had visited Storm’s End- and that trip had barely lasted a week.

After eating with Stannis the previous evening, Jasper had slept well. He’d woken up that morning not long after dawn, desperate to look around once more, though this time Stannis had been too busy to be with him. Instead Alrik, one of Stannis’ guards who had been tasked with guarding Jasper for the remainder of his time in King’s Landing, had shown him around some of the lower tunnels in Maegor’s Holdfast and had also shown him the armoury. Afterwards he’d once again visited the training field, but he hadn’t had long there until it was time for the midday meal.

Alrik announced him to the Ser Preston Greenfield, the Kingsguard outside the door. Ser Preston stood aside and opened the door for him, bowing ever so slightly as he did so.

Within Jasper found a lavishly furnished room, bursting with golds and reds. A long, dark wood table stretched from one end of the room to the other. On it fine silver platters, goblets and cutlery were laid out carefully and servants lined the walls with jugs of fine wine, standing as still as statues.

Comfortable, cushioned chairs were arrayed around the table. Most of them were full, but he only recognized a couple of them.

Lord Jon Arryn stood up from his chair and beckoned for Jasper to come forward, with a welcoming smile on his face.

“Welcome, my prince,” he said, as the others around the table also stood, many of them looking at him with penetrating, curious eyes; it made him feel uneasy. Jasper swallowed and began to approach slowly.

“You have been given the seat of honour, my prince,” Lord Arryn informed him as he got closer. “Next to your brother, King Robert himself.”

Jasper tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. He’d never had so many powerful people examine him like this before and he didn’t know what to do. No doubt Renly would make some brilliant joke and charm them all. He’d seen his older twin do it with Stormlords before.

Jasper sat down in his intended seat and listened as Lord Arryn introduced him to the attending guests. There was Lord Horton Wendwater, the Master of Laws, a small, plump man almost as old as Lord Arryn and his much younger wife. Lord Arthur Bolling, the Master of Coin, sat a few seats down. He was dressed richly, wearing robes of deep purple sewn with gold seams that matched the gaudy rings on each of his fingers. Others were introduced- thin and hawkish Lord Hayford, the scowling Lady Harte and the enormously fat Lord Chyttering, among others, though most of the names went in one ear and out the other.

Jasper did his best to smile politely at each and engage in small talk, but the chatter soon turned to matters he didn’t understand. Land claims, rising debt, city watch reforms- it all baffled him.

Thankfully, Stannis entered soon after and took a seat opposite him, which settled him some.

“All hail His Grace, Robert of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, and his Queen, Cersei of House Lannister,” a herald announced a few moments later.

His eldest brother was just a he remembered him. Big and black bearded, Robert slouched in, a half empty cup of wine already in his large hands. His shoulders were far broader than Stannis’, but, unlike Stannis, he now had a slight potbelly which Jasper didn’t think he had before, though despite this he still looked fit and fierce. A true king, Jasper thought.

Beside him was perhaps the most beautiful woman Jasper had ever seen. Thin and slender, Queen Cersei wore a gown of red and gold that complemented her figure perfectly. Her face was almost inhumanly gorgeous, with high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes the colour of emerald. Long, golden hair framed her face.

The two did not come in arm in arm, in fact they seemed to walk in as far away from each other as they could without making it too obvious for the courtiers at the table.

Behind them three Kingsguard knights followed closely- Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Meryn Trant and the famous Ser Barristan Selmy. Jasper’s mouth dropped open at the sight of one of the greatest fighters the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. He had so many things he could ask the legendary knight, but he knew it wasn’t proper, not right now. Perhaps he could pester Stannis to take him to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard later.

“Robert!” Jasper cried happily. He couldn’t help it; he hadn’t seen his brother in so long.

“Jasper!” Robert boomed, boisterously. “What are you waiting for? Get over here and give your brother a damn hug.”

Grinning, Jasper moved forwards quickly to hug the king around his large middle.

“Look how big you are,” Robert declared, an easy smile, so like Renly’s, on his face. “A true Baratheon!”

Jasper puffed out his chest proudly, as he stepped back from his royal brother.

“I bet you’re a right terror in the training yard, aye,” Robert laughed.

“Ser Cortnay says I am as skilled as you were at your age!” Jasper boasted.

“I’m sure you are.” Robert said. He opened his mouth to continue but was interrupted before he could.

“As touching as this reunion is, my love, perhaps we could get started? I’m sure our dear guests here are dreadfully famished.” Queen Cersei purred, her voice soft and velvety but Jasper fought there was an undercurrent of… something behind her words.

“Fine, fine let’s get started,” Robert said, moving forward to sit down, though none in the room missed the glare he sent the Lannister woman’s way.

“It is so good to see you, good-brother,” the queen said, turning to Jasper and offering him her hand.

“Your Grace,” Jasper bowed, kissing the soft flesh of her hand unsurely.

She smiled dangerously at him and suddenly he wished he was back out in the training yard, watching the men spar and joust.

Despite this, much of the meal was enjoyable.

Robert, between large gulps of wine, regaled him and the attending lords and ladies with stories of the rebellion. Jasper was enthralled, particularly with the duel against Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon, on the shores of the trident, the final death knell of the Targaryen dynasty. The courtiers around them appeared engrossed, gasping and applauding at the correct times, though the majority of them must have heard it all before. Only three seemed immune to Robert’s stories- Lord Arryn, who looked on in bemused exasperation, Stannis, who seemed derisive of the stories and courtiers both, and Queen Cersei, who looked around haughtily with her head held high, seemingly not paying attention to her husband’s tales at all.

Eventually, while the main course was served, the larger conversation seemed to die down and was replaced with smaller discussions.

“You’ll bloody love the Vale, Jasper,” Robert rumbled, even as Stannis frowned at the poor language. “Best time of my life was there, fostering with Jon and Ned.”

“Lord Yohn is a good man, my prince,” Lord Arryn smiled at him. “You couldn’t ask for a finer foster lord.”

“Aye!” Robert agreed loudly, taking a huge bite out of a chicken leg. “Remember him at Gulltown and the Trident, Jon? Must have taken out a dozen men with that great sword of his!”

“More importantly,” Stannis bit out, “he is an honourable man, who will teach you duty and respect.”

“Oh, cheer up, Stannis!” Robert grinned. “The lad doesn’t want to hear about that honour and duty waffle you love so much- it’s about fighting! And Yohn Royce can teach you how to fight, little brother.”

As much as he didn’t want to let down Stannis, Jasper couldn’t help but grin in anticipation.

“Now, now,” Lord Arryn intervened in a grandfatherly tone, “your brother makes a valid point, Your Grace. The values that Lord Stannis mentions are just as, and in some ways more important, than fighting ability.”

Robert groaned. “Come on, Jon! All an eight namedays old boy thinks about is battles and war and that’s how it should be.”

“Hmm, perhaps a balance of both is desirable?” Queen Cersei asked, pausing in her conversation with Lord Bolling.

“Yes, perhaps, Your Grace.” Lord Arryn agreed half-heartedly, pursing his lips.

“In any case,” Stannis turned to Jasper. “I trust you will represent House Baratheon adequately, Jasper.”

“Of course,” Jasper said quickly, with a smile. “I won’t let you down!”

“You’ve already failed in that through smiling- we all know how our dear brother hates that so,” Robert japed, to the laughs of many.

Stannis ground his teeth.

o-O-o

Robert said goodbye to him in the Red Keep main courtyard two days later. After telling him to train hard and cause as much mischief in the Vale as possible, Robert reached into his long cloak and pulled out a small scabbarded dagger. It was simple but made of strong, castle-forged steel with the black stag of House Baratheon etched into its pommel.

“Keep it safe, use it well. And remember that its not a toy,” Robert told him, unusually serious.

Jasper hugged him, bade goodbye to Lord Arryn and the few other lords gathered, and allowed himself to be led away by Stannis and his guards so that they could escort him to the docks.

It was rather a long journey by foot. Jasper, carrying his small pack of belongings, had to hurry to keep up with Stannis broad steps. A total of six guards, Alrik included, marched behind and in front of them, warding off the curious smallfolk. Most only cast them a few glances, save for a group of dirty-looking young boys who tailed them for several streets before one of the guards shouted at them to leave. Storm’s End was a castle, not a city, so many sights were new to him; rag wearing beggars, so thin you could see their bones through the skin; thriving stalls, selling anything from simple bread and wine, to exotic spices, dyes and clothes from the far east; even the many inns and taverns- there had to be two to a street- were busy, though it was still the morning.

The docks, too, were hectic. All sorts of people, from olive-skinned Dornishmen and colourfully dressed Essosi to dark Summer Islanders and Jasper even spotted a small group of merchants that looked to of come from the far-off Yi Ti, milled about, attending to a number of different tasks. Scores of ships floated in the harbour, some having just docked, others looking ready to set off with crew members shouting at one another and sails being raised.

Stannis led him to a large war galley flying the gold-yellow and black Baratheon sail. Painted on the side in flourishing gold lettering were the words _Black Betha_.

A man, presumably the captain, walked down the ships gangplank and met them on the dock. The man had a kind face and medium length brown hair that matched the colour of his eyes. He wore a blue tunic with old boots and brown breeches, covered by a green cloak gripped with a clasp depicting a black ship with a white onion on its sails. It was a coat of arms Jasper recognized but he couldn’t quite place.

“Lord Stannis,” the man bowed, speaking with a common accent. “It’s good to see you again, my lord.”

“And you,” Stannis nodded at the man. “I trust Marya’s labour went well? I have not yet received a raven.”

“Aye, it did.” The man smiled. “Suppose the ship was faster than the raven this time. Another boy it was, my lord. Maric, we’ve named him.”

“Congratulations,” Stannis replied.

The man nodded his thanks, scratching his head when he did so and that was when Jasper noticed it. The first joints of the fingers of the man’s left hand were missing. He now knew who the man was.

“Jasper,” Stannis began, “this is-”

“Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight!” Jasper named him, grinning in delight.

“I’m surprised you remember me,” Ser Davos said, smiling back. “You and your brother were barely six namedays old when I last saw you, if I remember rightly.”

“You saved my life, and that of countless others in Storm’s End. You’re a hero!”

The head of House Seaworth flushed. “I don’t know about that, my prince. I simply did what I could to get the best price of my onions and save some people in the process.”

“But you didn’t have to.” Jasper proclaimed. “And Stannis knighted you for it, so you must be a hero!”

“Yet he also lost the tips of his left hand,” Stannis told Jasper, face stern. “For no matter how brave and noble he acted that day, he was still a smuggler. And he had to be punished for it.”

“And I am forever grateful to you, my lord, for the knighthood and punishment both.” Ser Davos bowed his head.

“I have no need for your gratitude, only your continued loyal service.” Stannis told him. “Are you ready to sail?”

“Whenever you command, my lord,” Ser Davos said. “We have the wind, for the moment.”

“Then see to the final preparations.” Stannis ordered the Onion Knight.

Ser Davos nodded and bowed, before turning around and walking up the gangplank, yelling commands as he did so.

“Ser Davos is taking me to Runestone?” Jasper asked his brother, excited.

“He is.” Stannis said. “I needed my most trusted ship captains to escort the king’s brother, and that is he. None in all the Seven Kingdoms can captain a ship as well as the Onion Knight.”

A pause.

“I, uh, suppose this is goodbye then,” Jasper muttered.

“Yes.” Stannis said simply. “In truth I would’ve preferred you foster closer to King’s Landing and Storm’s End both. It had been planned that you would serve as a page and squire to a lord in the Stormlands before Robert interfered and insisted the Vale was at least made an option.”

“I don’t mind, really,” Jasper tried to smile, sounding unconvincing even to himself. “It will be a new and exciting adventure, right?”

“In a way,” Stannis said, tilting his head. “But be sure to conduct yourself with decorum first, learn second, and have… fun third.”

Jasper grinned and shifted forwards to wrap Stannis in a tight hug. He buried his head in his brother’s midriff, savouring his final moments with a family member for likely several years.

From now on he was on his own.


	3. Chapter Three

_Black Betha_ moved quickly through the choppy waves of the narrow sea. Through fortuitous weather and the skill of her captain and crew, the large warship had made good time since leaving King’s Landing a week ago. They’d passed the rocky island of Dragonstone a day and a half ago and were now approaching Claw Isle.

Jasper sat on the forecastle, fidgeting restlessly with the dagger Robert had gifted him and occasionally risking peeps down at the rough blue water below him. The shouts and singing of the crew faded into the background, as he focused on the sound of the waves breaking against the front of the ship. The meeting of wood and water was jarring, but strangely relaxing at the same time and Jasper enjoyed the feeling of the seawater droplets that were sent spraying up against his face. The midday sun was warm and comfortable on his face, but that couldn’t stop the dull sigh that escaped his lips.

He was bored. There was little to do on this ship. He enjoyed talking to the crew, but they were often too busy manning the vessel to talk to the young prince. The rest of his time was spent aimlessly wandering the ship or else relaxing in the sun, as he was doing now.

He couldn’t wait to reach the Vale.

He could hear loud foot steps behind him and he turned his head to see Ser Davos approaching.

“Enjoying the sun, Prince Jasper?” The captain called to him, as he got closer.

“As much as I can enjoy anything locked up like this,” Jasper grumbled, the kind-natured knight smiling indulgently in response. “No offense to you, Ser Davos, but I think life at sea ill suits me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, my price,” Ser Davos replied, chuckling slightly. “I’ve seen adults three times your age spend the whole journey emptying their stomachs. You’re almost a seasoned sailor in comparison.”

“Be that as it may, Ser,” Jasper said, his young, high voice still sullen, “I enjoy the feeling of dry land beneath my feet too much.”

“Fair enough.” Ser Davos allowed, leaning his arms against the ship’s side.

“How soon until we reach Gulltown, do you reckon?” Jasper inquired, standing up to stand next to the Onion Knight.

Ser Davos tilted his head in thought and said, “A week and a half at most, but likely sooner.”

Jasper exhaled loudly.

“How are you feeling about it? Nervous?” Ser Davos asked, looking at him. “If its not so bold of me to ask, my prince.”

“No, its fine, Ser Davos,” Jasper smiled softly. “I suppose I am. I’ve only ever been away from Storm’s End for a moon and I’ve never been apart from Renly for more than a day. Now it seems I’ll be away from both for years.”

“Its to be expected, my prince,” Ser Davos told him. “I still feel the same every time I leave my family on a voyage.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” Ser Davos said. “I wasn’t that much older than you when I left my ma to gain service on a ship.”

“Why did you leave?” Jasper asked quietly.

“It seemed the only way I could get out of Flea Bottom, my prince. To make something of myself,” Ser Davos answered.

“I see,” Jasper said. He frowned, remembering Stannis words. “And that was through smuggling?”

“Aye, my prince,” Ser Davos said, shifting slightly. “I first found service on the Cobblecat under Roro Uhoris, a smuggler and somewhat of a pirate, also. A Tyroshi he was, and a tough man, too. Taught me everything I know about sailing a ship and navigating the seas.”

“Is he still a smuggler?” Jasper questioned. “Or is he a knight now too?”

“I think I’m the only smuggler turned knight in all the kingdoms, my prince,” Ser Davos laughed. “One of a kind. No, Uhoris was caught by the Night's Watch fleet from Eastwatch. Hanged him they did, and only I and a few others managed to slip away.”

“What did you then?” Jasper wanted to know, absorbed in the Onion Knight’s life story, so different from his own. Alien, almost.

“Well, my prince, after serving under a few more captains I managed to secure my own small ship,” Ser Davos stated. “And became one of the more infamous smugglers of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And then Storm’s End,” Jasper guessed.

“And then Storm’s End,” Ser Davos nodded. “Reckon you know the rest. Your lord brother knighted me, gave me some lands and a modest keep and now I sail with the royal fleet, serving Lord Stannis.”

“A steep rise indeed, Ser Davos,” Jasper smiled.

“And however much Lord Stannis says my gratitude is useless, I am grateful,” Ser Davos said. “I owe everything to him.”

“And your own hard work, too. Don’t discount that, Ser,” Jasper said earnestly.

“Perhaps,” the Onion Knight allowed, though he didn’t look convinced.

“I suppose if you can do all that by yourself, I can make the best of my situation at Runestone,” Jasper sighed, his stomach a bundle of nerves and doubts.

“I have no doubt you will, my prince,” Ser Davos told him brightly.

“Thank you, Ser Davos.” Jasper nodded.

They were silent for a few moments before Ser Davos noticed a crewman that drew his ire.

“Oi, Alyn that’s not how you tie a bloody knot! Tighter!” Ser Davos glanced at the prince apologetically. “Sorry, my prince but…”

“Go, go,” Jasper waved him away, heaving a sigh as Ser Davos hurried away towards the terrified lad who’d angered him.

Once more Jasper was left alone to contemplate his future, though Ser Davos’ words gave him some encouragement. If Ser Davos, a boy of low birth, born in the wretched slum of Flea Bottom, could rise so high by himself after leaving home so young, then he couldn’t wallow in self-pity. He would train hard and become one of the greatest knights in the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps even serve in the Kingsguard, protecting his brother and his brother’s heirs from danger. He didn’t want to be beholden to any of his brothers’ titles and or their generosity. He was determined to make something of himself.

o-O-o

Runestone was beautiful. Smaller than Storm’s End, but a mighty fortress still, its bronze dyed strong walls had ancient runes carved into their base. The castle of House Royce for centuries, Runestone stood high and proud, dwarfing even the large hills and small mountains that occupied the landscape around it. It was round in shape and sat on a rocky, mountainous outcrop. The castle had several tall towers jutting from its centre atop which flags displaying House Royce’s emblem of black iron studs on a bronze field bordered with runes flew proudly.

Jasper approached with the two Runestone guards who’d ridden out to meet them after they’d come within sight of Runestone, and his small escort of Gulltown guards, lent to him by Lord Gerold Grafton, ruler of the Vale’s only true city. Jasper had feasted with the lord and his family the night he’d arrived in the Vale; it had been an awkward dinner with the former Targaryen loyalists, after all Robert himself had slain Lord Gerold’s own brother, Marq, early in the rebellion. Ser Davos had insisted on himself and two of his men accompanying him while inside House Grafton’s keep, though Jasper had thought it pointless- what idiot would kill King Robert’s own brother under guest right? The next day _Black Betha_ had sailed away and Jasper had ridden from Gulltown with six of Lord Gerold’s best guardsmen.

The thick wooden gates of Runestone were already open by the time Jasper and his party reached them. He entered his new home slowly, looking around at the castle cautiously.

It appeared as though the entire household of Runestone had congregated to welcome him. He spotted guards and servants, minor nobles and knights, scores of them, arranged in rows waiting for him.

A large, powerful-looking man with a surcoat of House Royce’s coat of arms on his chest strode forward from amongst the crowd as Jasper clambered off his horse and stretched. The man was tall, his face lined with middle-age. He had grey eyes, a straight nose and very bushy eyebrows. Despite his size, there was an unexpected gentleness in his face.

“Prince Jasper,” the man, presumably Lord Yohn Royce, bowed when he reached him. “Welcome to Runestone.”

“Lord Royce,” Jasper greeted with a hesitant smile. “You have a magnificent castle, my lord.”

“You are kind to say so, my prince, though I shan’t disagree with you,” the Lord of Runestone replied, his voice almost as loud and booming as Robert’s. “We are glad to welcome you within our halls."

“Thank you for having me, my lord,” Jasper replied.

“As I said, it is our pleasure,” Lord Yohn grinned broadly, showing sharp, white teeth. He stood back and waved a group of people forward. “May I introduce my family, Prince Jasper?”

Lord Royce first presented his wife, Lady Falena Royce, formerly of House Rosby. The older woman was kind-faced and looked to be the sort of woman to always have a smile on her face. She was almost as tall as her husband and had long, grey, wavy hair. Her smile was encouraging as he fumbled over his courtesy greeting. Jasper liked her instantly.

Next was the recently knighted Ser Andar Royce, Lord Yohn’s son and heir. His stocky and powerful build was similar to that of his father’s, as was his bushy eyebrows and similarly shaped nose. However, he seemed to have inherited the thin lips and big, brown eyes of his mother. His chestnut brown hair fell into his face and over his eyes when he leaned forward, an easy grin on his face, to greet Jasper with a firm handshake.

Rowena Royce was a few years older than him, twelve namedays at a guess, and she greeted him with polite, if reserved, courtesy. Her little sister, on the other hand, was younger even than him; Ysilla Royce blushed furiously and gave a nervous giggle when he kissed her little hand.

The only two others left were Lord Yohn’s younger sons, Robar and Waymar. Robar was of an age with him and looked to be a smaller version of his older brother, though less stocky. His greeting was happy and enthusiastic, and, like Lady Falena, Jasper couldn’t help but like him. Waymar, on the other hand, was thin and slightly weedy with clear, grey eyes. Only a year or so younger than Jasper, he didn’t smile when introduced, his brief courtesies more like that of Rowena’s.  

After the correct formalities in greeting Lord Yohn’s family, he was introduced to some of the main staff lodged at Runestone. Ser Samwell Stone, better known as Strong Sam Stone, the master-at-arms was a renowned knight. The big man looked at him appraisingly and Jasper got the impression he was being assessed for his fighting worth. Leobald Tollett, a small, sallow-cheeked man, was introduced as the steward and Ser Desmond Coldwater as the captain of the guard. Maester Helliweg had a slight hunchback, though he seemed nice enough, as did the heavy set Septon Lucos.

By the time it was all done Jasper felt exhausted. Lord Yohn surely spotted this, for he dismissed the household quickly and turned to the young Baratheon prince.

“I’m sure this has all been very tiring, my prince,” Lord Yohn told him. “You can get comfortable with your room first and we shall speak more at the evening meal, tonight.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Jasper responded, relieved.

“Good.” The Lord of Runestone nodded. “I’ll have the servants bring up your things. Robar can show you to your room,” he said, beckoning his middle son.

Robar ran up to the two of them quickly, his obvious excitement causing Jasper to smile.

“Come on, it’s this way,” Robar told him, pulling him towards a set of stairs that ran along the castle’s east wall. The Royce boy wasted no time, speaking as soon as the two were alone, “What’s it like being brother to the king?”

Jasper was taken aback at the question. “Er… great, I guess. Though I don’t see him often.”

“My father says King Robert’s one of the greatest fighters he’s ever seen!” Robar exclaimed, earnestly. “He saw him slay Ser Marq Grafton, and Prince Rhaegar, too.”

“Stannis said Robert hated Rhaegar for stealing his betrothed, and he was determined to kill him. Which he did,” Jasper said, proudly.

“My father told me how they met in combat on the shores of the Trident in the midst of battle,” Robar said in wonder. “They had a legendary duel, many of the soldiers stopping to watch, but finally…”

“Robert hit him so hard that the rubies in his breastplate were scattered into the river,” Jasper continued the tale.

“And now they call it the Ruby Ford!” Robar finished the well-known story, one which both had heard many a time, exhilaration in his tone.

The two grinned at each other, both caught up in the story and imagining similar tales of glory in their own futures.

The rest of their short walk was filled of similar tales. Robar told him of Bronze King Grayson III Royce, who had pushed back a mighty alliance of Belmores, Hunters and Redforts thousands of years ago. Jasper, in turn, told him the story of Storm’s End’s creation, which he was shocked Robar hadn’t heard before; he’d known the story since before he could walk. He had just explained the disagreement over whether the children of the forest or Bran the Builder had helped Duran, when they reached the correct hallway.

“You’re in the same tower as me and my family,” Robar told him, beaming, when he showed him into his new room. “My chamber is only just down the hall.”

Jasper smiled at him, before inspecting his room. The bed in the centre of the room, pushed up against the back wall, was larger than his one at Storm’s End, which surprised him. He saw several sets of clothes with the Royce insignia embossed on it, likely his new page’s uniform, stacked on shelves in the corner. A modest, wooden desk sat in the other corner, with fresh ink and parchment lain on it. A large window looked out onto the courtyard and beyond, from which he could see green fields and rolling hills.

“Do you like it?” Robar asked from the door, nervously.

“Yes,” Jasper said, truthfully. “I like it.”

o-O-o

Jasper dipped the seal in the warm wax and stamped it over the rolled-up parchment, marking it as coming from the Lord of Runestone. Carefully, he placed it atop the other written writs that were to be carried across Lord Royce’s lands, officially banning the unsanctioned dye making business that had apparently cropped up in the underground black markets in recent months.

Jasper looked up at Lord Yohn, who was going over the castle’s accounts with Maester Helliweg and Leobald Tollett.

“I’m all done, my lord.”

Lord Royce glanced over and nodded, “Good work, Jasper.” He looked at the boy next to the prince. “And you, Hector?”

Hector Hunter, the grandson of Lord Eon of Longbow Hall, was a blonde-haired boy of ten namedays, recently appointed as Lord Yohn’s squire. Jasper had been disappointed when he first heard that, but Lord Yohn had reminded him that a lord could have two squires and that, in a year or two, Jasper would be named as one his squires. In the two weeks Jasper had been at Runestone he and Hector had become good friends, along with Robar and Osric Wayn, Ser Andar’s squire.

“Nearly, my lord,” Hector replied, before stamping the last of the writs. “There, done!”

“Well done, both of you,” Lord Yohn praised them. “You got through them a lot quicker than I had thought you would.”

“Can we go to the training yard now, Lord Royce?” Hector asked, Jasper nodding in agreement. “I know its earlier than is normal, but we’ve done all our duties.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Hector,” Lord Yohn told him sternly. “Though… perhaps, just this once. Unless you have something for them to do, Maester Helliweg? Did they behave in this morning’s lessons?”

As Lord Yohn turned to the Maester, Jasper and Hector looked at Helliweg pleadingly.

“They were most diligent and attentive in listening to my teachings on the War Across the Water, my lord,” Helliweg said, shooting an amused look at the boys. “And I have nothing further for them to do.”

“Is that so?” Lord Yohn quirked an eyebrow, as Jasper and Hector heaved a relieved sigh collectively. The Lord of Runestone turned to Hector. “What was the name of the Mountain King who the Sistermen turned to after the Northmen invaded?”

Hector though for a moment. “King Mathos II Arryn, my lord. He died when his flagship was sunk by three Stark vessels ramming it at the same time.”

“Correct.” Lord Yohn nodded, before turning to Jasper, who gulped. “Which Arryn king besieged and took the castle of Wolf's Den?”

“A trick question, my lord,” Jasper replied quickly. “King Osgood Arryn besieged it, but it was he son, Oswin, that saw out the siege. And he didn’t take it, he burned it.”

“Aye, very well,” Lord Yohn smirked slightly. “You may go to Ser Samwell. Go on then, off with you!”

Jasper was out of his seat like a shot, calling over his shoulder to Hector, “Race you!”

The two raced out of the door, the laughs of the three adults following them.

They arrived at the training yard not a minute later, Jasper winning the race by at least two lengths.

“Yes!” Jasper pumped his fist, while the older boy bent over to catch his breath.

“And what are you two doing here?” Ser Samwell approached them from where he had been overseeing some of the garrison’s training, his grizzled voice stern. The master-at-arms was a hard man, but just and fair. Not unlike Lord Yohn himself.

“Lord Royce said we could come early. We’d finished our responsibilities,” Jasper panted.

“I see,” Ser Samwell stroked his short stubble. “Come on then, boys. You know where the gear is.”

The two hurried to equip themselves with pads and a wooden sword and shield each from the barracks. Ser Samwell then set them to practicing the basics of thrusting and slashing on wooden posts. Not long after Robar, Osric and Waymar joined them, finished with their own chores.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ser Samwell commanded after a while. “Let’s have some practice spars- nothing too rough, mind, but I want to see you try. Waymar and Osric, you first.”

“That’s hardly fair! He’s near three years older than me!” Waymar complained.

Jasper had found complaining came naturally to Waymar.

“Two and a half,” snorted Osric. “Scared, Waymar?”

Jasper and Robar laughed, while Waymar reddened.

“Of you? Hardly,” Waymar laughed cruelly. “Your family of landed knights are hardly better than peasants, unfit to hold a sword.”

Osric purpled and made to lurch forwards, but Jasper caught him and held him back, Hector quickly rushing to help him.

“Shut up, Waymar!” Robar accosted his younger brother. “House Wayn go back hundreds of years, and Osric is a far better sword than you. You’re just frightened and jealous.”

Osric was still straining against Jasper and Hector, who were struggling to hold the other boy back.

“Settle it in the spar,” Jasper told him, desperately. “You know you can beat him.”

Meanwhile, Waymar shouldered up to his brother.

“Defending him brother?” Waymar asked. “Can’t the little river-boy fight his own battles?”

“Little?” Robar scoffed. “You were just complaining how much older and bigger he was!”

Waymar opened his mouth to respond, but Ser Samwell made his voice known before he could.

“Enough!” The master-at-arms shouted, his voice cracking through the tense atmosphere like a whip. “You are acting like fools. Osric, calm down and prepare for the spar. Waymar, stop belittling your brother’s squire, who is a guest in your lord father’s castle. I have made my decision and you will spar with Osric. Robar, Jasper, Hector- stand back. All of you, now.”

Jasper did as he was told, as Waymar and Osric squared up to each other. Osric’s face was a picture of determination, his stance calm and collected. Waymar looked at him and beckoned mockingly, though Jasper caught the slight nervous twitch at the corner of the young Royce’s eye.

Osric came at Waymar hard and fast, his slashes a little reckless, yet still accurate enough. Waymar defended with his sword and shield valiantly, but after thirty seconds of Osric constantly raining down blows on the younger boy Osric’s age and superior strength told. He caught Waymar’s shoulder with a thrust and capitalised with a follow up slash to the gut while Waymar was distracted. Waymar doubled up, whimpering in pain and Ser Samwell announced Osric the victor.

Jasper, Robar and Hector congratulated the smirking Osric, while Ser Samwell commanded Waymar to sit down and rest. He gave his critique and tips to both individually before addressing the small group at large.

“Hector, Jasper,” Ser Samwell called. “You’re next. Remember to keep your shield up- last time that cost both of you.”

Jasper blew a breath out as he took his place opposite Hector. Their spars were often well matched; Hector was stronger and had more experience, but Jasper was quicker and the more natural swordsman.

Unlike Osric and Waymar’s duel, the two of them started more cautiously, with testing, probing thrusts. After a minute or two of this Hector suddenly launched a series of attacks at him, which Jasper only just managed to block with is shield. He attempted to turn the attack around on Hector and counter-attack by barging his shield into the young Hunter’s torso, but Hector dodged and arced his sword around for another slash. Jasper caught it on his own sword and the two blunted weapons made a great clamouring sound that echoed across the yard, despite only being wood.

The two held the position for a long moment, before Hector used his greater strength to throw Jasper off and push him back. Hector went for another swing, aimed at the prince’s stomach, and Jasper stepped back nimbly to avoid it. The two stared at each other for a few seconds, breathing heavily as they circled one another.

Then, quick as a crack of lightning, Jasper reached in with a thrust towards his opponents right calf, his wooden sword a blur. Hector attempted to lower his shield to block, but Jasper changed the direction of the thrust at the last minute. His opponent realised it was a feint too late and the wooden sword struck Hector just below the collar bone, causing the boy to cry out in pain. The squire immediately tried to retaliate, cutting out with his sword in the general direction of the young Baratheon, but Jasper had already ducked, anticipating it.

With Hector’s defences open, Jasper was free to thrust up, driving his sword into the older boy’s stomach. He followed it up speedily with a swing that connected with Hector’s right hand and knocked the sword from his grasp.

“Jasper wins,” Ser Samwell shouted, approvingly. “A good fight, both of you.”

Jasper lent down and offered Hector his right hand, which he accepted. Jasper pulled the young Hunter up and smiled apologetically.

“Sorry about that.”

“Are you kidding?” Hector laughed good naturedly. “That was great. And I wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to you.”

“I guess that’s true,” Jasper smiled, just as Robar and Osric reached them.

“You both fought well,” grinned Robar. “I think you even impressed Ser Samwell.”

“You’ve got to teach me that faint.” Osric said to Jasper.

“I wouldn’t want to give you ways to defeat me, now, would I?” Jasper laughed to the protestations of his companions.

No matter how nervous he had been before arriving at Runestone, he needn’t have worried. He was greatly enjoying his time at Runestone, and it already felt like a second home. Much of that was due to the boys around him. He’d never really had any companions his own age at Storm’s End, apart from Renly, and only now did he realise how much he’d missed out on.

“Stop congratulating each other and get your asses back in position!” Ser Samwell roared. “Robar and Osric, you next. Hurry the bloody well up!”

“Guess we didn’t impress the old stoat much,” Jasper gumbled under his breath.

“I heard that!” Ser Samwell rounded on him. “Brother of the king you may be, but in this yard you’re just the same as any other snot-nosed squire. I want fifteen laps of the yard. What are you still doing here, Prince Jasper? Move!”

Cursing his own stupidity, Jasper dropped his sword and shield. To the laughs of his so-called ‘friends’, he set off on a brisk jog, only for Ser Samwell to shout even louder.

“Faster! I want you to run!”

Jasper did as he was told, gritting his teeth as his legs began to groan in protest.

In hindsight, perhaps he’d been asking for something to go wrong when he’d let his thoughts become too reflectively positive. The Gods sure loved their jokes.

“Faster!”

Clenching his fists tightly, Jasper did as he was bid.


	4. Chapter Four

_289 AC_

The small rowboat moved as silently as possible through the calm water of the harbour. It’s six passengers, too, were as quiet as the grave. Beside them, a veritable fleet of other small vessels, near sixty of them, rowed in identical silence.

It had been a simple thing to leave the safety of their bigger longships and slip by the coastal defences and watchtowers of this port city. The sentries placed there had been lax; the Greenlanders had forgotten the old ways and grown complacent.

The anchored ships around them rocked slightly in the cool, blue ocean water. The various ropes and sails swayed and rustled in the soft breeze, and the occasional shout or laughter could be heard from the shoreline, though all else was quiet. It was a moonless night, the suffocating darkness seemingly seeping into every nook and crevasse, though a few stars could be seen twinkling high above where mortal men could not reach. Somewhere, far off, an owl hooted.

Victarion Greyjoy raised his armoured fist and brought it down slowly on the wooden side of his rowboat.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Despite keeping the sound as quiet as possible, all heard his signal. Gradually, the other rowboats began to break off from the main grouping, all headed for their intended target.

Victarion’s craft kept straight, as was planned, making for the largest ship before them.

The _Lion’s Might_ was a colossal dromond. A triple-decked war galley of some two hundred and fifty oars, Lord Tywin’s flag ship dwarfed the other vessels around it. Its wood was polished to perfection, so much so that it almost gleamed in the low starlight, and its lion figurehead rose above the deck proudly, it’s painted face drawn back in a roar. Victarion couldn’t begin to guess how high the thing was. The Ironborn preferred smaller, swifter ships than bulky monstrosities such as this.

At his hushed command, his rowboat and two others pulled up alongside the huge ship’s port side.

Behind him some fool coughed, and Victarion turned to glare at him with murderous intensity. They couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong, not in this first strike of the war.

“Now,” Victarion whispered harshly to his men.

Immediately, the men on his and the two other rowboats began their work.

With grappling hooks and climbing ropes, several men scaled the side of the war ship with a rapidness that spoke of how important their mission was, despite the armour weighing them down. It took several agonizing minutes, and more than a few uneasy moments, but, finally, the men reached the top. As soon as they arrived atop the deck the signal was sent down and the men left on the boats brought forth barrels of pitch from the depths of the rowboat. As quick as was possible, they tied the barrels to the ends of the rope securely and soon the barrels were being hefted up to the top deck of the _Lion’s Might._

Victarion watched it all with keen eyes. Soon the Iron Fleet would have no rival in all the Sunset Sea.

From above he heard the splashing that could only mean his men had gotten the barrels open and were now coating the deck with the flammable liquid.

“We’re all done up here, milord,” one of his seasoned reavers called down to him, half a minute later.

“Then get down here,” Victarion growled back, casting an anxious eye towards the flickering lights of Lannisport. “And be quiet about it. Sound carries over water.”

It took longer for the men to climb down. Somehow, they had lost sight of the rope in the darkness, and Victarion mentally cursed their stupidity. Finally, after much hushed words and an ecstasy of fumbling atop the side of the dromond, they found it and began the climb down, in excruciatingly pondering and slow movements.

Victarion couldn’t help the sense of satisfaction that came over him when the last man had arrived back in the boats. No alarm had been raised, which meant the other boats had been just as successful. He was the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet and these were his men, under his command and following his orders. It might be Euron’s plan, but he’d be the one to carry it out.

Praying to the Drowned God that all the others were in position, Victarion lit his torch quickly with an iron dagger and a flint stone. It caught and within the blink of an eye, he had bright, flaming torch grasped in his hand.  He took a slow, calming breath, lifting the torch up and in front of him. He waited several moments for the other boats to see, then stood up, the small boat swaying beneath him.

With a savage grin, he threw the torch with all his might. He traced its progress with his eyes as it arced up and over the side of the _Lion’s Might_.

Within minutes the Lannisport fleet was burning.

o-O-o

“Keep your lance straight to the last, Robar!” Ser Samwell shouted to his mounted squire. “You’re letting it dip below the waist when you get close to the target. Hold it steady.”

“Aye, Ser Samwell,” Robar panted, readying for another charge at the wooden target twenty yards away from him.

Jasper stood a little back with Osric and Hector, watching his best friend joust.

Four years as a squire to Lord Royce had served the prince well. With the classical Baratheon looks of bright blue eyes and coal black hair, which he wore short but messy, he was a handsome youth. High cheekbones and smooth cheeks filled his face, though baby fat still lingered at the edges of his comely face. Taller than any of his friends, even Osric and Hector who were both older than he, his broad shoulders demonstrated his muscle. Lord Yohn had proclaimed on many occasions that he was a young Robert reborn, though more sinewy than brawny, and this was clear to any who looked upon him.

“Come on, Robar,” Osric called merrily, “surely you can hit the target at least once today!”

“As if you did any better,” scoffed Hector. “It took you a half hour to hit the thing three times. He’s only been at it for half of that.”

“And you’re a year older.” Jasper added.

“At least I hit the damn thing!” Osric exclaimed, though his voice was still more teasing than cruel.

Robar gave no response but a grunt before urging his grey mount into a charge. Jasper watched closely as Robar’s form held true, his tourney lance held firmly in an iron grip as the young Royce got closer. The blunted end of the lance hit the plain wooden board with a loud twang, glancing of its right side.

The three young squires watching clapped their friend’s success, even Osric, though Ser Samwell wasn’t impressed.

“Better, but barely,” he commented as Robar rode up beside him. “A weak hit, glancing at best.”

“I’ll do better this time, Ser,” Robar vowed, already preparing to ride at the target again.

“I’m afraid not.” Ser Samwell said, waving Jasper, Osric and Hector closer. “I must assist Ser Desmond with the new recruits. You have the rest of the day to yourselves. Think on what I have told you and be ready to go again tomorrow.”

With a nod to the four of them the burly knight left, marching off in the direction of the barracks.

“Why are my arms so bloody weak?” Robar despaired dramatically, once Ser Samwell was out of sight. The young Royce slid off his horse, letting a groom grab the reins and lead it towards the stables. “I can barely hold it up long enough to charge properly in the right position, let alone make it to the target,” he said once he’d walked up to them.

“You’re not the only one,” Jasper consoled him. “My arms still burn from my training, even now.”

“Yes, but you hit nearly every time!” Robar cried, as the group began the slow trudge up stone steps to the main holdfast of Runestone.

“He’s right, Jasper,” Osric patted him on the back mockingly. “We can’t all be as brilliant and skilled and valiant-”

“Shup up, Wayn,” Jasper rolled his eyes.

“Hey, it’s not just me,” Osric grinned in response. “What was it Lord Royce said the other week? A natural talent?”

Jasper shifted a little uncomfortably.

“I’m not that good.” He replied.

All three of his companions turned to look at him sceptically.

“Okay, I’m pretty good,” Jasper allowed. “But so are all of you.” 

It was true. Hector was his equal with a lance and Osric beat him with blunt weapons any day of the week. Though they were right in terms of swordplay, he supposed. He was a natural swordsman, even being able to defeat most of the guards and household knights in Runestone more oft than not, though victory against Ser Samwell and Lord Yohn still eluded him.

The others let the matter drop.

They entered the now familiar halls of Runestone still sweaty from their practice. There they said their brief goodbyes and split up, Robar and Jasper heading off toward the top of the south tower, where Lord Royce, his family and Jasper had their quarters and the other two towards their lodgings in the east wing.

As they walked in companionable silence, Jasper thought back happily on his last four or so years in the Vale.

Despite his initial reservations it had turned out to be a great experience, as Ser Cortnay and the rest of the Storm’s End councillors had promised him it would be what seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d become instant friends with Robar, Osric and Hector and when Waymar had been sent to page for Lady Whent of Harrenhal- Lord Yohn had obviously noticed the animosity between his youngest son and the other boys- they had just gotten closer, free of such a negative influence. Ser Andar had quickly become like an older brother to Japer in the absence of his real brothers; they all wrote to him, Robert less than Stannis and Renly, but it wasn’t the same, so he’d focused on building up friendships with people he could physically talk to. Not only had he made friends in Runestone but across the Vale through the various tourneys and feasts he’d attended as Lord Yohn’s squire. Creighton Redfort, his younger brother Jon and Ser Roland Waynwood were just a few of those young Valemen he now called friend.

He said goodbye to Robar at the door to his chambers and entered his room to find a warm bath already waiting for him, as was the norm after a training session. As long as you were friendly and gracious with them, the servants of the castle performed such actions without being asked.

After bathing and dressing in the livery of House Royce, he made his way to Lord Yohn’s personal barracks and set about finishing his usual chores for the Lord. He and Hector had cleaned the Lord of Runestone’s mail and plate that morning, but he still had to polish the man’s huge great sword, which was almost as tall as Jasper himself. As always it took well over an hour of hard work to wash and wipe the sword all over, from sharp point to rune-inlaid hilt.

By the time it was over it was time for the evening meal. Jasper knew that he was expected to sup with Lord Yohn and the other Royces that evening, as it was the last day of the month. This was a rare occurrence; usually he would eat with Osric, Hector, other squires and household knights, while the Royce family dined together.

He headed to the main feasting hall, which was thankfully on a floor below, and found most of the guests already there. Lord Yohn sat at the head of the table with Lady Falena to his left, the older woman, who’d become something of a replacement mother for him, granting him a kind smile as he entered. To Lord Yohn’s right sat his heir, Ser Andar, and his wife, the Lady Barbara Waxley. Robar was sat next to her, with Ysilla on the opposite side in between Lady Falena and Leobald Tollett. Rowena was the only Royce not there, other than Waymar, having married Lord Theomar Melcolm just last year. Hector, Osric, Septon Lucos, Ser Samwell and Ser Desmond were also arrayed around the table, while household knights, minor nobles and even some regular man-at-arms, more than was usual, were seated at smaller tables lower down in the hall. Servants rushed from table to table, carrying jugs of wine and trays of appetisers.

“Your father has invited half the castle it seems. Truly, this is a small feast,” Jasper told Robar as he took the empty seat next to him, nodding to those others around the table.

“Indeed,” Robar agreed as he fiddled idly with a butter knife. “I’ve no clue why.”

“A reward for loyal service? A reminder, or warning, of who rules Runestone? Possibly even to clear out extra food supplies about to spoil,” Jasper shrugged. “Who knows, with your lord father.”

“You may be right. Though I am glad of it, really,” Robar grimaced. “Usually my father and mother spend most of the meal talking with Andar and Barbara. That leaves me with Ysilla and, trust me when I say this, Jasper, my sister is a complete bore.”

“Ysilla’s nice,” Jasper said, half-heartedly. “And she is your sister.”

“Are you kidding?” Robar snorted. “All she speaks about is the latest singer to visit court… and you.”

Jasper shifted uncomfortably; he was not unaware of the younger girl’s affection for him. It was just a girlhood crush, so he put little thought to it.

“Shall it be pigeon pie again today, do you think? Or perhaps those rabbits Lesley caught this morning? I could do with some fresh game,” Jasper said lightly, switching topics none too subtly if the twinkle in Robar’s eye was anything to go by.

Thankfully the second Royce son didn’t comment on his slightly cowardly attempt at a conversation change.

“The rabbits, hopefully,” he said instead. “I can’t stand to eat another bloody pigeon pie. You’d think it was all Freila could make, the old cow.”

Jasper tilted his head in silent agreement, his mouth quirking in amusement at the same time.

“Enjoy your polishing duties, Jasper?” Osric called over suddenly from the opposite side of the table, breaking through their conversation.

“Very much so,” Jasper replied amiably, as he turned to face the smirking squire. “It does wonders for my wrist and arm strength, making our future spars even easier for myself.”

As Hector, sat beside Osric, and Robar chortled, Osric flashed a cocky grin.

“I have other ways to build up wrist strength, my prince.”

“No doubt,” Jasper smiled lazily back, as Hector snorted and Robar hid his choking laughs behind his hands. “I’m surprised your right hand hasn’t already broken off from over use.”

Osric simply winked in reply.

“Aye, any day now,” Hector laughed. “Honestly, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you, Jasper. Lord Yohn had me running messages down to the weaponsmiths.”

“It’s fine,” Jasper waved a dismissive hand. “I rather enjoy it, actually. It’s calming.”

“True,” Robar agreed. “I find the same when tending to Ser Samwell’s weapons and armour.”

“You’re bloody mental,” Osric shook his head in apparent bafflement. “I swear there’s nothing more boring in all Westeros than polishing. Polishing, honestly!”

“It’s your own fault,” Hector chided him. “You can barely sit still for more than a minute.”

Osric had just set his features into an expression of righteous indignation when Lord Yohn raised his voice and addressed the four of them, quietening their table.

“I trust you four caused no trouble today?” Lord Yohn eyed them with a raised eyebrow. “I want no repeats of the lemon cake incident.”

The four of them dipped their heads as one in a sheepish manner, as the rest of the table looked on them with either disapproval, in the cases of Lord Yohn, Ser Samwell, Lady Barbara, Ysilla and Leobald Tollett, or amusement, such as with Lady Falena, Andar, Septon Lucos and Ser Desmond.

Jasper did his best not to look at his fellow accomplices, for fear of cracking up with laughter at the memory. A few moons ago they’d laced a tray of lemon cakes with a concoction from Maester Helliweg that was used to help… move the bowels. Ysilla, Barbara, their handmaidens and even Lord Yohn himself had all eaten one before the affects had kicked in and it was realised the cakes had been tampered with. They’d had to help the grooms muck out the stables every day for a fortnight as punishment, but to Jasper it had still been worth it.

“No, father,” Robar was the one who spoke up eventually, playing the dutiful son. “We have been most industrious in our lessons, training and chores.”

“I’m sure,” Lord Yohn said wryly. “Ser Samwell, do you attest?”

“Mostly, my lord,” Ser Samwell nodded curtly. “We worked on the lance all afternoon. Jasper and Hector showed their prowess once more and Osric and Robar made palpable improvements. Though I fear sometimes they do not take it seriously enough. Jokes and mockeries are all well and good, but one must make sure it does not detract from their training.”

“I see,” Lord Yohn stroked his bearded chin. “Listen to Ser Samwell, boys. Heed his words. Someday they may save your life.”

The four of them murmured their agreement.

“Relax, father,” Andar leant back in his chair. “I was just the same at that age. What is life without a good jape or two?”

“I’m not so sure. I don’t remember you being so… wilful at that age, husband,” Lady Barbara said primly, a playful glint in her eyes. “As malleable as wax you were.”

“My lady!” Andar’s tone was teasing. “Are you saying I was impressionable? Was I so easily led?”

“You were,” Lady Barbara smiled cheerfully. “Why, I had you wrapped round my little finger.”

“Betrayed by my own wife!”

“I shall be kind and call it dutiful, then, if you are so hurt by it,” the daughter of the Lord of Wickenden said with a roll of the eyes.

“Anyway,” Lady Falena’s soft voice interrupted her son and his wife’s harmless mocking, “there is nothing wrong with some light-hearted fun during youth dear husband, Ser Samwell. They won’t always be boys. Best enjoy it while they can.”

“I couldn’t agree more, my lady!” Septon Lucos pitched in, his wide grin displaying yellowed teeth. “We were all young once and it’s hardly impacted their development. The lads make sure their chores are done, and all excel in martial pursuits. Their lessons too, I know.”

Jasper couldn’t help but smile. Septon Lucos could always be counted on to back them up. He’d been the one to steal the shit-inducing potion- as Osric had named it- from the Maester’s chambers.

“Perhaps it is best to ask Maester Helliweg that directly,” Leobald Tollett said, dourly. While not an unkind man, the uncle to the current Lord Tollett was determined, almost to the point of obsession, in serving Lord Yohn as best he could. He was also not known for having fun.

“And I will do that, after he is done attending to the rookery,” Lord Yohn assured the steward.

As the Lord of Runestone finished speaking the food was finally brought in, trays upon trays of it carried to each table by buxom serving girls.

Pigeon pie.

Robar groaned to look upon the food and Jasper couldn’t help but laugh, though he did offer his friend a consoling pat on the back as reassurance for his plight.

All looked to the Lord of Runestone for permission to begin the meal, which he gave without ceremony.

“Tuck in!” Lord Yohn called to the whole hall, cheerfully. Laughs and toasts followed and soon the large room was filled with sound of cutlery scraping on plates and loud chewing of pie.

As they began to eat talk turned to lighter topics. Jasper spoke to his friends of their planned blunt weapons training in full plate scheduled for tomorrow, which Osric was relishing, before Lord Yohn and Lady Falena shared with them some recent news; some minor lord from the fingers had been given control of all customs at Gulltown; Lord Duncan Pryor had married Ursula Lynderly, apparently a surprise match; Lord Elmar Costayne’s young heir, Tommen, had apparently been caught up in a scandal concerning the young daughter of a landed knight sworn to his father. None of this mattered to Jasper, but he listened dutifully, as was expected of him.

It only got more interesting when Lord Yohn cajoled Ser Samwell into telling them a few tales from when he had been a sellsword in the employ of the Stormbreakers. The stories were watered down because of the ladies present, but to hear about Essosi battle tactics was fascinating nonetheless.

The jovial atmosphere was shattered by the hurried entrance of Maester Helliweg, who entered from a side door and headed straight for Lord Yohn, a scrap of parchment in his hand. The Maester attempted to be discreet about it, walking quietly with his head down, but one by one the men within the hall noticed the Maester’s entrance and turned to look at Helliweg present Lord Yohn with the message, a worried look on his pinched face. If the Maester had disrupted dinner to bring Lord Yohn the message it had to be important.

Jasper watched with curiosity as Lord Yohn read the message calmly, the hall almost silent now. It seemed an agonizingly long time before the Lord of Runestone looked up and gazed on the many faces looking at him from around the hall.

“News from the West,” Lord Yohn announced, his full voice carrying across the hall. “Balon Greyjoy, who now styles himself King of the Iron Islands, has raised his banners in rebellion. His brothers launched a surprise night assault on Lannisport, burning the Lannister fleet to ash, and Ironborn ships have been sighted across the western shores of Westeros.”

Murmurs swept the hall and Jasper shared a shocked look with Robar.   

Lord Yohn Royce stood, his commanding presence immediately silencing the whispers.

“We are at war.”

o-O-o

Runestone had descended into bedlam.

The clamour of metal on metal rang loudly across the main courtyard, as weapons and armour smiths toiled in their craft, determined to outfit Lord Yohn’s levies that had already begun to gather outside the walls. Servants bustled about carrying weapons, armour, food and other supplies. Guards marched past, some tasked with watching the peasant levies, others with the supervision of the other preparations. Knights, whether they be household knights that had served Lord Yohn for years or newly arrived hedge knights, watched it all with a superior eye, or else rode against each other with practice lances at the lists. Though, Jasper thought idly, there would be little, if any, cavalry charges in this war. Navy clashes, minor skirmishes and siege warfare were what this foolish rebellion would amount to, according to Lord Yohn and Jasper believed him.

And a foolish rebellion it was. Ever since Lord Yohn had shared the news, Jasper couldn’t help but linger on that thought. Why would Balon Greyjoy do this? Was he mad?

“This war will be a slaughter.” Jasper couldn’t help but voice his internal thoughts aloud.

“I can’t help but think the same,” Hector agreed from beside him, as they both leant back against the wall, watching the courtyard fervour.

It was their first free time in three days, having been busy helping Lord Yohn prepare. Robar was elsewhere in the castle, attending to Ser Samwell as the old knight outfitted the peasant levies and gave them a basic training crash course, and Osric was several miles away with Ser Andar, who had been tasked with helping Lord Tollett gather his forces. That left Jasper and Hector alone and with the training yard occupied by a slew of knights, they’d decided to just take a break and watch the mayhem unfold.

“Is Balon Geyjoy suicidal?” Jasper asked, incredulous. “One kingdom against the rest. He stands no chance.”

“True,” Hector conceded, “but it isn’t quite one kingdom against the rest. Dorne certainly won’t send men. At least nothing extensive, just a few ships to keep up appearances, most likely.”

“I suppose,” Jasper nodded, begrudgingly. “And I doubt those houses who held loyal to the Targaryens during the rebellion will send their full strength, but…”

“… it will still be a bloodbath,” Hector concluded for him.

“I suppose his plan will be to use his naval advantage to make sure no armies land on his shores,” Jasper scratched his head. “Though he can’t really expect to stop every fleet at once, as it’s likely we will launch a several pronged invasion at once, even if most of our ships would be transport vessels. The Iron Fleet can’t be in two places at once.”

“But does King Robert have enough ships for such an invasion?” Hector wondered aloud. “That would’ve been the point of burning Lord Lannister’s ships at anchor.”

“I guess you could be right…” Jasper sighed. “We’ll have to go through the Iron Fleet, then.”

“Or your brother does,” Hector reminded him. “He commands the Royal Fleet, does he not?”

“He does, as Master of Ships.”

“Do you think he can do it? Defeat the Iron Islanders on the sea?”

Jasper thought of Stannis, strong-willed and no-nonsense, and nodded firmly.

“Yes, I trust him,” he said. “I think he’ll win, even against the Ironborn.”

“Let’s hope so,” Hector sighed.

As Jasper frowned, thinking of the daunting task ahead of Stannis, another one of Lord Yohn’s household knights, Ser Garret Roote, rode through the gates at the head of a column of bleary-eyed serfs. Ser Garret was just one of the men tasked with scouring the Lord of Runestone’s lands looking for able-bodied young men, several hundred of whom had already been gathered.

“They look so…” Jasper struggled to find the right word. “… unprepared.”

“They’re peasants,” Hector pointed out, as if it were obvious, “what did you expect? Hardened soldiers in full plate?”

“No,” Jasper rolled his eyes. “But, come on… they’re clothed in little more than rags and have probably never held a weapon in their life.”

“That’s what Ser Samwell is working on.”

“He won’t get them ready- we march in a week,” Jasper argued. “There’s not enough time or equipment.”

“Why do you care so much?” Hector asked, taking a sip from his waterskin.

“Well, how do we expect them to go up against any prepared Ironborn reaver?” said Jasper. “They’ll be slaughtered. They need proper training, decent equipment-”

“They don’t,” Hector said, exasperated. “And they won’t be slaughtered. The Ironborn levies will be just as ill-prepared and we have knights,” he knocked Jasper’s arm playfully. “Stop worrying so much.”

The frown creasing Jasper’s face eased, if only slightly.

“Aye… you’re right, of course,” Jasper shook his head, dispelling the grand plans that had formed in his head.

“I have my moments.”

“Yes, as few and far between as they are,” Jasper laughed, as Hector pouted. “They are more frequent than Osric’s, if that comforts you.”

“It does not,” Hector replied simply, with a sardonic twist of the mouth.

Jasper smiled.

The late afternoon sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the courtyard’s paving stones. As the sun descended, the chilly Vale winds cooled even further, and a slight gloom appeared, blanketing them in hazy darkness. In response torches and lamps were lit, and many of the present knights retreated indoors, headed for the feasting hall, fresh ale and a warm meal. Hector followed them after a quick goodbye, though Jasper thought it far more likely he was seeking out a certain serving girl, Merrell. They only had a week before marching off to war, after all.

Things far from calmed in the courtyard, however, as the servants and guards continued in their labour; they were not so free from duties as the household knights.

“Jasper.”

He blinked, whipping his head away from the working staff to find Lord Yohn Royce himself approaching.

“My lord,” Jasper scrambled to stand up straight. “Have you need of me?”

“No, lad. You’ve done enough for today, at least. You can relax,” he said, with dry amusement. He tilted his head to the side. “Walk with me.”

Jasper followed his mentor up jagged stone steps to the walk way that ran along the top of Runestone’s strong walls, passing many flustered servants and guards who still took the time to stop and bow for their liege lord. The two of them walked along the side of the high parapet, past arrow holes and jutting merlons. Lord Yohn came to a stop halfway along the wall and stepped forward to lean against the top of it. Jasper kept slightly back with his hands clasped behind his back respectfully.

“Was there something you wished to talk about, my lord?” Jasper asked, after a few moments of silence.

“Aye,” Lord Yohn sighed. “You are a prince of the Iron Throne, Jasper. Brother to a king, a lord paramount and another lord, who is a small council member also. You will one day be given your own, likely substantial, lordship, or else serve some other purpose for the realm. A Kingsguard, perhaps- you have the skills for it, that is clear enough already. And, most importantly, you are rather high up in the line of succession. Do you see what I’m trying to say?”

“Truthfully, no, my lord.” Jasper shook his head, confused.

“It is expected that I not allow you, as a prince, to take part in any major fighting,” Lord Yohn explained to him. “That was heavily implied when I took you on to foster, and it has been further hinted at in my correspondence with King’s Landing and Storm’s End. I can only imagine that will be even further reinforced now that we’re actually at war.”

It took several seconds for him to understand what Lord Yohn was saying but when the words had sunk in his eyes widened and he felt the anger boiling his stomach instantly. Was he going to be left at Runestone, or just at the back of the army, never to see combat? Who wanted this- Lord Arryn, the queen, Stannis? It didn’t sound like Robert. Whoever it was didn’t matter; only that it was completely unfair.

“Y-You can’t be serious!” Jasper cried, loud enough to gain looks from those guards patrolling near them.

Lord Yohn did not answer, so Jasper railed on.

“Am I to stay here?” he demanded, furiously. “With the women and children and old men? Shall I learn needles and stitches with Ysilla, too?”

“Do not take that tone with me, boy,” Lord Yohn warned him. “You shall do as I command, whatever that is. You’re my squire.”

“Aye, I’m your squire,” Jasper agreed with heat, “I go where you go, to fight all your battles alongside you. I’m not a coward!”

“I never said you were, but you’re are a prince of the blood, Jasper,” Lord Yohn said sternly. “The king’s own brother.”

“I’m fourth in line!” Jasper exclaimed. “And that’s if Robert doesn’t have another son, Stannis too. He’s married now. I’m hardly ever going to sit the throne.”

“That’s not the point, lad.”

“But it is, isn’t it?” Jasper said. “That’s the only reason I’d be held back, but it doesn’t make any sense. Andar’s your heir and he’s going. So is Osric, and he’s his father’s heir.”

“They’re not royalty,” Lord Yohn reminded him. “The rules are different for you.”

“It’s unfair!”

“It’s the way it is, complaining does not help,” Lord Yohn said, his tone scolding.

“So, what are you going to do with me?” Jasper asked, in haughty defiance.  

“I’m not sure,” Lord Yohn admitted. “I’ve received no direct commands on the topic. I was considering bringing you anyway, and to the seven hells with the consequences, until you’re rather immature reaction just now.”

Jasper’s cheeks turned pink. He rallied for one last appeal.

“My lord, I swear to the Old Gods and the New I will follow your commands in everything, should you allow me to join you.” Jasper vowed. “I’ll work my fingers to the bone for you. I’ll polish your arms and armour every night, so hard that it gleams in the morning. I’ll clean and fed your horse, set up your tent and fight beside you. Please, my lord, I’m ready. I can do this.”

Lord Yohn regarded him carefully with sharp eyes, grey as a stormy sky. Then, he nodded.

“Aye, lad,” Lord Yohn said. “You’re as natural a swordman as I’ve ever seen, and you’ve been more than an able squire. I won’t take this away from you, not when the other boys are going. But no foolish heroics, understand? You’re twelve, not a seasoned killer.”

“I understand, my lord,” Jasper promised, excitement coursing through him. “I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

“Be sure you don’t,” Lord Yohn said, before his face softened. He waved his arm at the young prince. “Come on, join me. You don’t have to stand so far back.”

Gingerly, Jasper stepped forward to join Lord Yohn at the front edge of the wall. Below them scores of campfires and hastily constructed tents spread out from the castle, creating a small city of canvas and spitting fires. Hundreds of dark shadows sat around the campfires, as others moved from tent to tent, many likely drunk from the dazedness of their movements.

“How many have arrived now?” Jasper asked the lord.

“Near five hundred,” Lord Yohn told him. “We should have more than a thousand by the time we march next week. We’ll have some two thousand when merged with that of my bannermen.”

Jasper whistled, but Lord Yohn frowned.

“In truth I’d hoped for more,” Lord Yohn said. “I could raise a further thousand given another week, but time is of the essence. We must meet up with the other Vale lords at the Bloody Gate, then march to Seagard as soon as possible.”

“It’s still a respectable number,” Jasper reasoned. “How goes Ser Samwell’s outfitting?”

“As well as can be expected,” Lord Yohn shrugged. “The men at arms and knights will be finely equipped, the peasants less so. Some will get some rusted mail, and most should receive some sort of weapon, though it won’t be castle forge steel most of the time. I simply don’t have enough smiths. Other than that, we’re about as prepared as you can be for war.”

Silence settled between them, Lord Yohn seemingly resigned to contemplation.

The quiet stretched and stretched, until finally Jasper asked, “What was your first war, my lord?”

The Lord of Runestone huffed a rumbling chuckle.

“Depends, I suppose,” he said, pulling at his grey beard. “I remember seeing my father off for the War of the Ninepenny Kings, though I was just a young boy then, younger than Ysilla, even. My first taste of battle wasn’t until a decade after that. A great culling of the mountain clans, the scouring they called it, had been called by the great lords of the Vale. The clans had become too… adventurous in the years preceding, attacking towns and villages across the Vale. The entire chivalry of the Vale and beyond, more than five hundred knights and freeriders, gathered for a grand campaign. I was a young knight then, only recently having earnt my spurs, and hungry for glory. We saw less combat than expected, though.”

Lord Yohn hawked and spat over the wall, his face twisting in disgust.

“The cursed wildlings slunk back into the valleys and hills, like the cowards they were,” Lord Yohn snarled. “We caught a group of Redsmiths in a trap and slew them to a man, then managed to hunt down the Painted Dogs’ main camp and burned it, capturing many of them. But that was as far as we could get after months of campaign.”

“So that doesn’t really count as a war,” Jasper guessed.

“No,” Lord Yohn agreed. “That just leaves your brother’s rebellion. My first full scale war. And last, until this one- if it counts.”

Jasper nodded; he’d all about the rebellion from Lord Yohn before. The great siege of Gulltown, the chaotic skirmishing within the city of Stoney Sept and the decisive battle at the Trident, he’d heard it all. He’d even told of the aftermath of the sack of King’s Landing, though Lord Yohn usually didn’t like to talk about that.

“I don’t think this war will be quite to that scale,” Jasper said.

“No, it won’t.” Lord Yohn acknowledged. “But it will be war nonetheless, and that means blood. You said you were ready, Jasper, but are you really? Think about it for a moment. Could you take another man’s life, a man with parents and siblings, wives and children? Can you kill?”

“Yes,” Jasper said, after a moment, sounding surer than he felt.

“We shall see, lad,” Lord Yohn looked at him closely. Was that pity in his gaze? “We shall see.”

 


	5. Chapter Five

The longships came into sight at noon. Beginning as dark specks on the watery horizon, they became larger and larger until each ship in the sizeable fleet became as clear as glass, from the armoured men that manned their oars to the fluttering sails that flew high above them, each one emblazoned with a different crest of arms. Among the menacing emblems displayed were scythes, ships, skeletal hands and any number of different animals, from krakens to nine-headed serpents.

Dennett clenched his short spear tightly as he gazed on the Ironborn-infested sea that stretched out below him. As a man-at-arms of Seagard in service of House Mallister, he’d prepared for this moment for years. All who grew up in the shadow of the The Booming Tower were brought up with a mixture of hatred and fear of the reavers from across the sea and he was no different. When he was a young lad his Ma would tell him and his brothers stories of Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, and Qhored the Cruel, stories that had given him nightmares as a boy and still made his toes curl even as a grown man. The only thing that had comforted him had been the knowledge that the Ironborn had not set sail on a reave in any great numbers in over a century; yet now the bronze bell of The Booming Tower rang behind him. The Ironborn had come.

“We’ll be alright, won’t we, Den?” Wallace asked from beside him. His brother’s voice sounded high and scared, an echo of Dennett’s own inner mess of emotions.

“Of course, little brother,” he said, smiling with as much cheer as he could muster. “What’s a few raider scum against good Rivermen steel, eh?”

“Aye,” agreed their comrade and friend, Paton, from Wallace’s other side, “we’ll send the rapist fuckers back into that sea they love so much. Let’s see how much they like a good spear through the throat, right lads?”

A chorus of agreement sounded from the men-at-arms along their section of the wall that were in ear shot. They were a mixture of Lord Jason Mallister’s own household guards and men-at-arms, as well as those soldiers that had come with with the various minor lords and landed knights sworn directly to Seagard that had started to arrive only yesterday, just the day after the news of the Lannisport fleet’s destruction had reached them. Thankfully as soon as good Lord Jason had received the raven, the young lord had called his banners and locked down the coastal town for a siege. He knew, as did many others, that Seagard would be one of the first targets of the so-called ‘King of the Iron Islands’. They had been proved right when longships had been sighted off the coast at dawn that morning, sending the castle and town of Seagard into a panic. Lord Jason had restored order handily, however, and by late morning Dennett and his comrades had been deployed on the walls and the smallfolk of the town ordered to stay indoors.

“Here the hairy-arsed bastards come, men!” Ser Perwyn of Hag’s Mire, the knight placed in charge of Dennett’s section, shouted, pointing below them. “Ready yourselves!”

Dennett leaned forwards, looking over the shoulder of the man in front of him to see the longship at the head of the Ironborn fleet reach the now deserted dockyard below them. He knew little of different lords and houses and their heraldry, but even he recognized the golden kraken of House Greyjoy that flew from the ship’s mast. The ship looked large to Dennett, larger than any of the longships among the modest Seagard fleet though smaller than the _Silver Eagle_ and the _Lord Jason,_ the war galleys in the Seagard fleet, which had been hidden in a cove just south of Seagard; Lord Jason knew it was no match for the oncoming Ironborn fleet and so had chosen to save his ships rather than risk them being captured or destroyed. Dennett watched as armoured man after armoured man vaulted the side of the ship to land on the docks of Seagard, the fearsome warriors looking like Ironborn legends of old, even as several more ships full of reavers reached the shore, each bringing a fresh wave of soldiers.

“Fuck…” Wallace breathed. “How many of them, d’you reckon?”

“Five thousand?” Paton guessed, with a shrug. “Maybe more.”

“That’s more than we have,” Wallace pointed out, shuffling his feet.

“Aye,” Dennett sighed. “Two thousand more, at least.”

“Do they have strong walls on their side?” Ser Perwyn had apparently heard them. “We have the high ground, we have the archers and we have the better fucking soldiers! Am I right boys?”

The men cheered, Dennett and his brother joining in, though it did little to lessen the nervous coils that had settled in the pit of his churning stomach.

Below them the Ironborn had begun to gather just shy of bow range. They’d produced ladders from somewhere and seemed to be mustering for an assault already, though half their fleet was still in the sea.

As it was the Iron Islanders didn’t attack for another hour, instead choosing to wait for their other ships to dock. The Ironborn amused themselves through the wait by taunting Dennett and his fellow men-at-arms and knights atop the walls by shouting, cursing, obscene gestures; one man even took out his cock and took a piss in front of them, much to the jeers of his fellow reavers. This all stopped when one fool got too close to the walls and took an arrow in the eye. It had been the Seagard men’s turn to jeer then.

Finally, every longship had docked and everything seemed to settle for several long moments. Together the Ironborn host seemed great, a mass of glinting steel, greater than anything Dennett had seen for he’d not fought in the rebellion. Dennett could practically feel every other man on the walls tense, as all sensed what was coming. The Ironborn too seemed restless, the many soldiers below shifting and moving below the swelteringly hot midday sun.

Then a few Ironborn took a few hesitant steps forward, as a shouted command ran along the Islander host. A few seconds passed. A horn blew. Then it was as if a dam had burst. Thousands upon thousands of men surged forwards as one, with swords or axes or maces, among other deadly weaponry, clutched in their hands. Others, usually a group of around six, carried the ladders with which they would attempt to breach Seagard’s walls.

A hundred paces out.

Dennett sent up a quick pray for the Father to watch over him and for the Warrior to guide his spear arm.

Eighty paces out.

At the shouted command, taken up by Ser Perwyn and the other commanders, the archers atop Seagard’s walls loosened. Hundreds of arrows arced up into the sky and fell upon the Ironborn host, many finding a target. Screeches of pain rang out, but the volley did little to slow down the Ironborn charge; the archers kept firing.

Fifty paces out.

Someone behind him pissed. Another threw up, the acrid smell of it mixing with the stink of shit and sweat already evident among the waiting men.

Thirty paces out.

Wallace let out a whimper, though Dennett paid him no mind. He blew out a breath and tried to relax the bone tight grip he had on his spear and shield, but it seemed they were set in a claw like hold that his bones refused to lessen.

Twenty paces out.

The archers continued their relentless barrage. The range was so close now it was hard to miss, and the iron tipped arrows plunged down in the heavy mass of men rushing up the slope towards Seagard.

Ten paces out.   

And then the assault ladders were at the walls, unintelligible shouts were torn from throats and everything became anarchy.

The man in front of Dennett attempted to push the top of the ladder that had appeared in front of them off and away from the wall, but the Ironborn far below had a strong hold of its base. Dennett looked around him. All along the wall ladder after ladder was being raised by frenzied attackers, archers were doing their best to pick off any Ironborn they could, with several Islander bowmen attempting to fire back with limited success, and men atop the walls were scrambling to push the ladders back and, if that failed, readying their weapons for whoever scaled that ladder first. Men were screaming, bows were twanging and far off the first clash of steel on steel could be heard.

“Dennett!” he heard Paton yell. “Pay fucking attention, by the Seven!”

Swallowing around his dry throat, Dennett turned to see the first of the enemy had appeared at the top of the ladder. The man in front of Dennett took a step forward and stabbed forward with his spear, sending the Ironborn tumbling down the ladder; he was gone as fast as he’d appeared.

They had no time to relax, however, for soon another Ironborn had appeared, an extremely large man with flaming red hair and a great two-handed axe. The man in front of Dennett rushed forwards with another man-at-arms to block the warrior’s way, but the broad chested Ironborn warded them away with ease by swinging his huge axe in several long, warning arcs. The two men retreated a step, and that was all the ginger haired Ironborn needed to throw a leg over the side of the stone palisade and drop down onto the walk way. Behind him another Ironborn head popped up from the ladder and Dennett knew they were in trouble.

It was Paton who ran forward, ducked under the man’s axe swing and stabbed the Ironborn through the weak armour covering his upper calf, his spear tip sinking all the way to the bone and ripping through armour, skin and muscle. The warrior bellowed in pain and brought his axe up for a retaliatory swing, but Paton dived out the way, stumbling backwards. The warrior made to follow but was blocked by the same two men-at-arms he’d warded off less than a minute before. The man who’d been in front of Dennett blocked the warrior’s axe swing, while the other man-at-arms came up behind him to stab the man through the back and out his chest. The Ironborn sunk to his knees and Paton finished him off with a spear through the throat.

Only then did Dennett remember the other Ironborn warrior and his shouted warning came to late to the man that had stabbed the large Ironborn through the back. The man’s eyes widened, and Dennett looked down to see a sword impaled through the man’s back and appear out from his stomach. The man collapsed and the Ironborn warrior behind him pulled out his ebony-coloured sword from the dead man’s back with a vicious grin. Behind him another Ironborn warrior vaulted the side of the wall, sword and shield in hand.

Paton moved forwards to engage the second man who’d appeared, while the man who’d been in front of Dennett took on the second man. As the two separate pairs moved to face off, Dennett inched forwards, looking for a moment to strike and felt Wallace and a few other men follow. Then he saw it. The Ironborn who was battling Paton was locked in a fierce stalemate, his focus intently on Paton. The man had his arms lifted up, showing a gap in his armour.

Dennett took this opportunity to act, sidling forwards until he was in spear range of the second warrior. Dennett didn’t hesitate to stab upwards powerfully, spearing the man’s armpit and tearing his shoulder from his body. The man let out a high-pitched scream, a scream that died when Paton followed up by slashing his face, painting the man with a red smile. Dennett and Paton shared a quick grin, before surveying their surroundings.

On the next ladder over Ser Arwyn Grey, Lord Jason’s bannerman, and his men were holding strong. Ser Arwyn himself was on the front line, and Dennett saw him hack off the arm of an enemy attempting to fight their way onto the wall. Ser Arwyn flung the man off the ladder and turned with deadly purpose to find another opponent.

On the ladder at their other side Ser Perwyn was being driven back by a bearded, helmless warrior. Dennett watched, helpless, as the warrior found a weakness in Ser Perwyn’s defences and drove the poor knight to his knees by sheer strength and force of will, knocking his sword aside carelessly. Before Dennett’s eyes Ser Perwyn looked up at the man who’d disarmed him, desperate and defeated, and said something, Dennett couldn’t hear what. The warrior ignored him and raised his axe high in the sky, bringing it down in a flash of steel to sever Ser Perwyn’s head from his shoulders.

With difficulty Dennett tore his eyes away from the spectacle and turned back towards his own ladder, where he was met with a sight that turned his blood to ice. Wallace, spear wrenched from his hands, stood facing the Ironborn with the black sword and vicious grin. Ignoring Paton’s shout, Dennett forged forwards, running as fast as he could towards his brother, even as more Ironborn appeared at the top of the ladder. It was not fast enough.

The Ironborn punched his sword out and into Wallace’s ribs, before giving the sword a violent twist and sawing it across Wallace’s stomach. Pink, bloody guts half fell out of the open stomach, as the Ironborn heaved his sword out of the wound with a wet sucking noise. Dennett’s brother gasped and stumbled back, mouth agape, before keeling over never to rise again.

The Ironborn laughed. Dennett let out a thundering roar of anger.

He didn’t allow himself a moment to think. That would come later, the grief and the mourning. Now he had only one thing on his mind: vengeance.

The Ironborn blocked his first, vicious thrust, a look of surprise on his pock-marked face, before he smirked.

“Friend of yours, was he? I hope you’re more of a challenge,” he taunted. “I could of took him with my left hand, while taking a piss with the right.”

Dennett growled, but didn’t respond. He feinted to the warrior’s right before bringing his spear down towards his right side but the Ironborn jumped to the side, the weapon hissing passed him. This time it was the Ironborn who attacked, shoving forward with speed and ferocity. Dennett caught the warrior’s first strike on his shield, and his second and third, each attack increasing in savage intensity. Dennett tried to retaliate by driving his rounded shield into his opponent’s solar plexus and following up with a stab of his spear. The warrior was driven back a step by the shield bash, but he saw the spear thrust coming and batted it away easily, quickly stepping to the side and aiming a slash at Dennett’s left side. Dennett brought his shield round to deflect it but was caught by his surprise when the warrior threw himself forwards, diving at his shield. Dennett just had time to bend his knees and brace himself behind his shield. The sudden impact pushed him backwards, but he kept tight hold of the shield’s handle. The warrior pulled his sword up against the shield and brought his other hand round to push against the thick wood. A spear was useless at such close quarters so, throwing caution to the wind, Dennett cast it aside and reached for the dirk fastened at his belt, clutching the shield with all his strength as the warrior tried to pull it away from him. As he pulled the knife out, he lashed forwards with his foot. His steel capped boot connected with the Ironborn’s balls. The man yelled in pain and his grip on the shield slackened. With a violent tug Dennett pulled the shield out of the man’s grip. The Ironborn stumbled forward from the motion, his head bowed, giving Dennett a chance he had to take.

With a howl of anguish and rage he jumped forward and drove the dagger with all his might into the point where the man’s neck met his shoulder. Dennett pushed it down against the resisting flesh all the way to the hilt, bathing his gloved hand with blood. The man looked up at him with surprised eyes, a trickle of crimson blood running from the corner of his mouth.

“That’s for my brother, you fucking cunt,” Dennett spat.

He twisted the dagger and pulled it out. Dennett watched with grim satisfaction as the Ironborn fell to the ground, coughing up blood.

Dennett took a step back, looking about him. The situation had grown dire in recent minutes. The Ironborn had gained a real foothold in their part of the walls, half a dozen of them were holding around the ladder with more appearing every minute. Men-at-arms were doing their best to drive them back but they seemed to have stalled. Paton was on the ground, unmoving.

“Lord Jason!” One of the men-at-arms yelled. “He’s sallied out!”

Dennett started at the man’s shout but moved to the edge of the wall to find the man was telling the truth. Lord Jason himself, with two hundred horsemen, had sallied out from a side gate and were charging the Ironborn’s right flank. The Ironborn below had formed a loose shield wall but even now men were beginning to break away and back off from the approaching cavalry. Dennett thought Lord Jason and his knights looked like storied knights from the Age of Heroes, all sunlight flashing on gleaming armour and great destriers forging through long green grass. He watched with bated breath as they connected with the Ironborn flank with a great crash of steel. The screams of men and horses both quickly followed, but within moments the charge had broken through the thin flank and were riding on towards the men waiting at the bottom of the ladders, though with several less men.

Cheers broke out amongst many of the Seagard men-at-arms, but the Ironborn weren’t done yet. Many of the Ironborn that had gotten a foothold on the walls fought on and Lord Jason’s charge was quickly stalled when he came up against the larger body of waiting Ironborn. The fight for Seagard was still on.

Dennett picked up a discarded sword at his feet, then turned to the Ironborn still holding the area around the ladder. Letting out a slow breath, he joined the fray.

He helped a man-at-arms dispatch an Ironborn with a squashed nose, before joining the ring of men-at-arms surrounding the ladder and the Ironborn defending it, a group that was getting larger and larger. A warrior wearing dark plate with an open helm, showing an old, weathered face, seemed to have taken charge of them, yelling at his fellow Ironborn to form up as he finished off a man-at-arms with an easy flick his sword. Dennett glanced around him, realising that this was the most penetrated part off the wall; every other ladder seemed to be contained. But if the Ironborn broke through here they could easily filter into the town proper, as well as give heart to the other Ironborn attackers. They needed to stop the Ironborn here and to that they would have to take care of the leader.

“Come on, laddies,” said man declared, taking a menacing step forward, “Let’s show these green landers the fury of salt and iron. Let’s show them what it is to hold to the Old Way.”

The Ironborn around him bellowed their agreement, and Dennett felt the dread of the men around him. Trying to push down his own fear, he stepped forward so that he was directly in the old warrior’s path. The man smirked, hefting up his sword.

“You sure you want this, boy?”

Dennett felt like running but instead he said, “As sure as I am of anything, you brainless barbarian.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and his smirk seemed to become more dangerous. Without warning the man lunged forwards and struck a massive blow with his bastard sword that cut through the tip of Dennett’s shield. Dennett staggered but managed to catch the next blow on the crossguard of the sword he’d picked up. Too late, he realised that was the man’s plan. With cruel efficiency the man drove Dennett’s sword down into the ground with his own sword and brought his foot round to kick it away.

Dennett cursed his own hubris. He’d tried to go up against someone who was better armoured than him, and clearly better trained, and within three seconds he’d been disarmed. A cold feeling came over him, as he realised he was bout to die. At least he would see his brother again, though he tried to keep the reaction his mother would have at the news she’d lost two sons out of his mind. She’d already lost a husband to the rebellion and two children to the bloody flux; he didn’t what she’d do after losing himself and Wallace.

The man advanced on him, sword outstretched, and Dennett backed away to the edge of the walk way. He glanced around, praying for help, but his comrades were all occupied with trying to hold off the other Ironborn.

He gulped, as an idea struck him. A terrible, suicidal idea but it was his only chance to kill the bastard in front of him.

“Say your last prayers, green lander,” the man snarled, drawing his sword back for a strike.

Dennett yelled as loud as he could and charged him.

His sudden burst of action made the man pause for just long enough for Dennett to get close enough to throw himself against the man’s chest plate, so that they stood face to face. Dennett shoved against him, driving him further and further back. He felt the man’s free hand come up and squeeze tight against his throat, hard enough that he couldn’t breathe. They heaved against each other, grunting with exertion, both grappling around the other, as they came closer and closer to the edge of the wall. Dennett’s vision blackened, and his lungs screamed for air, but he kept on pushing, calling for his last vestiges of strength. Then there was a clank, and they both stopped. They’d come to the edge of the wall.

Dennett pushed harder and harder, the Ironborn straining against him, and they both began to tip over the edge. With one more prayer to the Father, he gave one last heave against the Ironborn.

He saw the warrior’s eyes widen, realising Dennett’s plan, a split-second before they both tipped completely over the edge.

And then they were in free fall, both still entangled amongst each other. The man’s hand finally fell away from his neck and Dennett managed to finally breathe, returning the colour to his face, before the ground rushed up to meet them and all he knew was agony. Like a searing fire the pain spread through his body, touching any and everything. He tried to cry out, but the sound wouldn’t come. A tear trickled down his face.

He tried to get up, but he couldn’t move through the waves of pain. He felt the man he’d tackled over lying next to him and glanced over. The Ironborn had landed head first on the stone beneath them and his head was crushed in. A ball of blood, crushed bone and sprayed brains made up where the man’s head used to be.

Again, he tried to get up, before realising he couldn’t even feel his feet. He glanced down to see his legs were twisted and broken, almost mangled, with odd bones sticking out. A wave of nausea swept him, and he leant his head back against the cold ground. A thick cough racked him, and scarlet blood escaped his lips and landed in splotches across his face, mixing with sweat, tears and the dried blood of his previous kills. Weariness spread through him and he felt his eyelids flicker.

Tiredly, he closed his eyes and saw no more.

o-O-o

_Jasper ran through the imposing but familiar walls of Storm’s End. Renly’s small form was ahead of him, just out of reach. His twin was laughing._

_“C’mon, Jas!” Renly’s voice was filled with mirth and innocent happiness. “Catch me if you can!”_

_Jasper ran harder and harder, urging his wary legs ever onward but his brother remained a few steps ahead of him. It didn’t make sense; he’d always been faster._

_“Hey, wait up! Renly!”_

_But Renly pulled even further away from him, his infectious laugh still echoing in the long stone-bricked corridor. Shadows flittered across the walls in a never-ending dance as the two boys raced past large windows and brilliantly painted tapestries. Renly remained agonizingly out of reach._

_“Catch me if you can, catch me if you can…” Renly sounded if he was singing. His voice was becoming ever more distant, his body becoming smaller and smaller before Jasper’s eyes._

_The endless corridor continued. Finally, Jasper’s legs gave in. He stumbled and fell, his knees banging painfully against the hard stone._

_“Renly!” Jasper voice echoed in the cavernous hallway._

_But Renly paid him no mind. Eventually, Jasper lost sight of his brother and his singing faded away._

_The torches sputtered and wavered in their brackets lining the walls. They seemed to be dying out as the darkness came on thickly. He was alone, and the darkness seemed to bear down on him like some monster from the stories._

_Jasper screamed._

“Oi, Jasper!” He felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Come on, wake up, mate.”

Jasper groaned, but managed to sit up, rubbing his opening eyes. Hector came into view in front of him, his mouth drawn into a smirk.

He was not in Storm’s End and Renly was hundreds of miles away.

“Bloody hell,” Jasper muttered under his breath.

“Come on, my prince.” Hector laughed. “We’ve got to break camp and prepare Lord Yohn’s horse and equipment. Again.”

Wearily Jasper stretched his arms out. He got up slowly from his small sleeping cot with a large yawn. Hector watched him with undisguised amusement from his own cot next to him. Both of them slept in the corner of Lord Yohn’s tent’s first room, ready to serve their lord at any time should he call.

“This campaign life’s clearly too much for you, my pampered prince,” Hector teased him with an air of faux-concern. “Perhaps you should head back to Runestone? I’m sure Ysilla would love to see you.”

Jasper gave no reply but a grunt and a middle finger; he was not a morning person.

After a quick breakfast of dried mutton, hard bread and cheese, the pair began their assigned tasks, which had become routine in the recent week of marching. Hector began packing away theirs and Lord Yohn’s belongings, while Jasper fed the horses and made sure Lord Yohn’s armour and weapons were ready for when the lord woke up.

The sun was still low on the horizon as Jasper walked amongst Lord Yohn’s personal horses, feeding them from bowls of oats. The camp was beginning to stir and others, mostly servants, sentries and squires, were also up and going about their business, showing the first signs of the breaking of the camp.  Men were starting to stoke the fires back into life and Jasper could hear the normal early morning mutterings.

By the time Jasper had fed and watered the horses Lord Yohn was up, chewing on a loaf of bread as Hector strapped him into set of bronze armor, which Jasper always marvelled out. It was both beautiful and practical, said to be thousands of years old and inscribed with runes that warded the Lord of Runestone from harm.

“Good morning, Jasper,” Lord Yohn greeted him amiably, as the prince bowed his head.

“Morning, m’lord,” Jasper replied, mid-yawn.

“My lord,” Lord Yohn corrected him, “You’re not a damn peasant.”

“Sorry, my lord.”

Lord Yohn regarded him knowingly. “Still finding the early mornings difficult?”

“I’ll cope.” Jasper promised him, drawing himself up.

“Good.” Lord Yohn jerked his head back towards his black and bronze coloured pavilion. “Start taking down the tent. I know Horton will want us on the road in an hour- he wants to be at the Bloody Gate by dusk tomorrow- and I’m inclined to agree with him, though an hour may be too ambitious. Get to it.”

Jasper nodded and hurried over to the large tent. He cleared what remained inside and packed those belongings away on one of the pack mules, before beginning to dismantle the tent bit by bit. Hector shortly joined him and soon after they’d finished.

By that time the other highborn companions of Lord Yohn’s retinue were also up and going about their tasks; Robar was strapping Ser Samwell into his plain but tough plate armour, while Osric, Ser Andar, Ser Desmond and countless others, from knights to grooms, squires and servants, rushed this way and that, all determined to make sure Lord Yohn and his men were ready to march as soon as possible.

Lord Yohn caught their eye.

“Hector, saddle the horses. Jasper- load the carts. Quickly, now.”

To Lord Yohn’s disappointment it ended up being nearly two hours before the Valeman army was ready to march. It took time to break camp, send out scouts, order thousands of men into marching order, along with sort out all the horses, carts, camp followers and other assorted hangers on. To further complicate matters, Lord Theomar Melcolm insisted on spending an hour in pray at the small local Septry, while Lord Benedar Belmore sat down for a veritable banquet as his breakfast which took even longer.

But finally, they were on their way. Jasper was far back in the marching order, with the baggage train. It was his turn to ride with Lord Yohn’s belongings, while Hector attended the Royce lord in the vanguard where the Lord of Runestone switched between riding at the head of his levies and accompanying the other lords of the Vale in the middle of the column.

Jasper disliked the position. The thousands of marching men in front of him cast a huge dust cloud behind them, meaning he was coughing half the time and it was far from the excitement and prestige of riding with the other noblemen, but it at least gave him time to think.

He found his mind wandering. He thought of Storm’s End, of Ser Ormund Estermont and the other council members, even the stern Ser Cortnay Penrose. He thought of Ser Davos and his honesty. He thought of King’s Landing and the many faces he had seen there, from the beautiful Queen Cersei to the kind Lord Arryn. He thought of his brothers, fierce Robert and charming Renly and steadfast Stannis, and how he missed all of them.

And he thought of Runestone.

It had been a cold day, he remembered, the day they’d marched away. The farewells had been bittersweet; Lady Falena had hugged him almost as tightly as she had Andar and Robar; Ysilla had kissed him on the cheek, much to Osric’s delight; Septon Lucos had smiled at him and whispered that he’d left him a gift at the bottom of his pack, which turned out to be a large bottle of fine ale. Even Leobald Tollett had looked sad to see them go.

The cart beneath him jolted suddenly, interrupting his reminiscence. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. They were going to war; it did no good to linger on such things. He had to focus on what was ahead, not behind.

o-O-o

Ser Davos Seaworth gripped the small pouch around his neck tightly. It relaxed him, as did the familiar push and pull feeling of _Black Betha_ beneath him.

The weather was glorious, hot and sunny, as was usual in the long summer they were in. Davos’ crew manned the deck frantically, hauling ropes, packing away oars and scrubbing the deck, and he could feel the tension in the air. They had sailed in Lord Stannis’ fleet for weeks, from the dark and foreboding island of Dragonstone, to fruitful beauty of the Arbor. The royal fleet had passed Casterly Rock a day ago, and the men knew, as did Davos, that they could meet the Ironborn any day now.

Davos shivered in his coarse linen clothing. He felt out of place; he was to quick and sneaky sailing under the cover of moonlight, not massive fleets and mighty naval clashes. Some voice in the back of his mind kept reminding him that he was a poor boy from Flea Bottom. He didn’t belong here.

He noticed his ship was drifting slightly and he turned to his steersman angrily.

“Tighten your steering, you fool,” he told the man.

“Sorry, captain,” the young man hurried to the rudder to correct his mistake.

Davos watched him wearily. He was an earnest lad, and a good sailor but he tended to get distracted. Davos would have to watch him and warn the first mate to do the same.

From somewhere to his right, Davos heard a lord horn blast- once, twice, three times. The signal for enemy ships sighted.

Davos rushed to the bow, snapping at his crew to stay put and continue their responsibilities. He couldn’t see anything yet- he was further back in the line- but, then, another horn blew, then another and he knew the Iron Fleet had arrived. He clutched the pouch around his neck again, feeling the bones through the thick leather of the pouch.

The Battle of Fair Isle was about to begin.


	6. Chapter Six

Hours after the first ships had been rammed and the first clash of sword on sword had rung out, men were still screaming. Their desperate, wailing tones carried clearly across the water to where Davos was stood on the deck of Lord Stannis’s flagship, _Fury_. All about him boys were scrubbing the bloody deck clean, or else throwing corpses overboard.

Peering in the evening light, Davos could just make out his own ship, _Black Betha_ , a few hundred paces away, lolling uneasily in the weak Fair Isle current. Most other ships in the royal fleet were in similar states; many had been damaged and so saw to repairs, but also to their wounded and dead. Many women had been made windows on this day, Davos thought dourly.

In truth, the outcome had been decided as soon as Victarion Greyjoy had sailed into Stannis’s trap. Whilst the Iron Fleet had been trapped in the channel between Fair Isle and the mainland, Stannis had meet them from the south, whilst Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor had descended on the Ironborn from the north. The Ironborn had fought long and they’d fought hard, Victarion himself even managed to smash his way through Lord Redwyne’s battle line and save his own ship and several others before the gap was plugged, but the majority of the once mighty Iron Fleet was captured or had been left lying on the bottom of the sea. With one tactical masterstroke Lord Stannis had crippled Balon Greyjoy’s naval capabilities, the true source of his power.

“Ser Davos?” Davos turned to see Stannis’s squire, Erren Florent, blinking up at him. The boy had been named the Lord of Dragonstone’s squire after his sister, Selyse, had married Lord Stannis just a year and a half ago. “Lord Stannis will see you now.”

Erren led him across the wide deck and pointed to the door leading to the captain’s quarters, just as Ser Hendrick Taylor, captain of the _Lord Lyonel_ , came out of it. Ser Hendrick was a short, stout man, with a merry personality but he was also one of the most capable captains in the royal fleet.

“Ser Davos!” Ser Hendrick grinned jovially. “Glad to see your still in one piece, old boy. Tough sons of bitches those iron-fuckers are, eh?”

“They are,” Davos smiled, “But not a match for Lord Stannis, it seems.”

“Ha! Too right.” Ser Hendrick lifted his right hand to show Davos the red-dyed skin proudly. “Can’t seem to scrub the blood out! What about you, Davos? Get a few of the fuckers yourself?”

“One or two, aye,” Der Davos shifted uncomfortably. He’d never relished killing the way career soldiers like Ser Hendrick did.

“Did you hear we got Balon’s brother?” Ser Hendrick asked, his eyes twinkling with a cruel glee.

“I had thought Victarion escaped.”

“No, not him!” The other man rolled his eyes. “The younger one. Aaron or something.”

“Aeron.”

“That’s the one,” Ser Hendrick grinned, rubbing his weathered hands together. “Apparently, after Lord Stannis and the _Fury_ had smashed his longship to bits, he tried to flee through that gap Victarion made in a little rowboat, but Lord Hewett caught the bastard in the attempt. Who knew a Reachman could be so competent? Lord Hewett seems so bloody useless most of the time I think it even caught Lord Redwyne by surprise. Ha!”

Davos frowned, knowing it was not his place to criticise a highborn lord.

“Well, I should get back to my own ship,” Ser Hendrick sighed. “You hear to give your report? Best not keep Lord Stannis waiting, my dear Onion Knight!”

Davos nodded goodbye and entered the captain’s quarters. It was furnished plainly, as was typical with Lord Stannis. A simple bed, covered with grey sheets and northern furs, sat secluded in the far corner, a small lit lamp hanging next to it. A few chests and a dresser, presumably containing all the belongings Stannis had brought with him from Dragonstone, were stacked unceremoniously against one wall. The only other object in the dimly lit room was a sturdy wooden desk, bolted into the wooden floorboards. There Ser Davos Seaworth’s lord sat.

Lord Stannis looked up as he came in. “Ser Davos,” he nodded once, “do sit.”

Davos took the lone seat opposite where Lord Stannis sat with a grim expression etched on to his hard face. Erren took a place at Lord Stannis’s back discreetly.

“How fares your ship and men, Ser?” Stannis asked once Davos was settled.

“No major damages, my lord. Only a few men dead and perhaps a score wounded, too.”

Stannis grunted and made a quick note on a piece of parchment in front of him, before looking up and regarding the knight before him unrelentingly for several long moments. Davos was used to such uncomfortable silences and waited for the Lord of Dragonstone to comment.

“We make for Seagard in the morning, Ser Davos,” Stannis told him, with the usual iron beneath his low tone, “Will your ship be prepared? Have you enough crewmen?”

Davos started. “I do m’lord… but…”

Stannis narrowed his flinty eyes and made an impatient gesture with his hand. “What is it you want to say, Ser? Be quick, I have a score more captains to see.”

“ _Black Betha_ is seaworthy, pardon the jape, m’lord, but I would not have thought many others would be, particularly those in Lord Redwyne’s centre.” Davos scratched his scraggily beard furtively. “They took quite a hit, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Stannis grunted. “Aye. I told that idle ginger fool Redwyne he needed to shore up his centre, but did he listen?” Stannis shook his head. “Regardless, it doesn’t change our plans. Lord Celtigar will command those who need urgent repairs. They’ll be making for Faircastle Port as soon as the wind changes.” Stannis ground his teeth together. “We must make for Seagard as soon as the sun rises on the morrow. My brother’s orders were clear.”

“As you say, my lord.”

“I do.”

Stannis looked away and for a while neither man spoke. Davos could hear the shouted commands of the _Fury_ crew outside the door, and the usual goings-on that happened on every ship deck, which Davos knew better than the back of his hand. He could almost sense the ropes swinging in the breeze, the wind thrashing the canvas and most of all the waves glimmering in the sunshine.

“When will we make it to Seagard, Ser Davos? Three days? Four?”

Stannis’s voice broke through his thoughts and Davos shifted to attention, feeling guilty that he’d let his thoughts creep up on him. He took a few moments to gather his thoughts. 

“Three days sounds right, for a fleet of this size. Two if the weather improves.”

“Three days, then.” Stannis nodded, satisfied. “Which means four days until my brother can start his invasion. Go to your men and your ship, Ser. Our job is not done. Not yet.”

o-O-o

Jasper swayed slightly as he stumbled back towards the campfire. The ale and wine he’d consumed, desite being less than half a skin-full in quantity, had begun to take effect; his vision was blurred, and his movements were jittery. While this wasn’t the first time he’d consumed alcohol, he was still but ten-and-two, and a lightweight.

With difficulty he managed to brush past several laughing and singing Valemen, their wine-flushed faces shadowed by the dark, moonless night, to where his friends were huddled together. He sat down heavily in between Osric and Robar, immediately stretching his hands out towards the flickering fire, seeking its comforting warmth.

Osric glanced round at him in surprise, his eyes bleary from the drink.

“Where’d you bugger off to?”

“Take a piss,” Jasper grunted, reaching for the wine skin offered by Jon Redfort, from the other side of Robar. He took a healthy swig, enjoying the way it seemed to light a fire through his veins.

“Jaspey!”

He looked across the circle to Hector, who was swaying so much he looked close to falling off the log he was sitting on. Jasper regarded him with as much sternness as his drunk self could muster.

“Hector, you may be my friend but if you ever call me that again I’ll cut off your bollocks and feed them to you. Understood?” He asked.

Hector pouted, as the other boys and young men laughed.

“I jus’ wanted to ask your op-p-p…”

“Opinion.” Creighton Redfort supplied.

“Opinion!” Hector confirmed, nodding his head madly. “Exactly! Me an’ Creighty-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“- were jus’ debating w-whether… uh…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Creighton cried, “I’ll ask him. Who’d win in a fight- King Robert or Lord Royce? I said King Robert, obviously, but Hector reckons Lord Yohn.”

“He’s got more e-experience,” Hector insisted.

Jasper frowned in thought. As much as he looked up to Lord Yohn, he didn’t think he could beat Robert with his Warhammer though it would certainly be a fight for the ages.

“That’s true,” he conceded, knowing everyone around the circle was listeining to him, “but I think Robert’s youth would win out. They’d both be heavily armoured and hack and slash at each other with big, strong strokes for ages, ‘cause that’s their style, but eventually Lord Yohn would tire, I reckon.”

“Not necessarily,” Robar piped up, loyally defending his father. “I can’t imagine even King Robert is as big and strong as father.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jasper snorted, thinking of his hulking eldest brother.

“What about Ser Jaime or Ser Barristan?” Ser Roland Waynwood asked.

“Ser Barristan, of course!” Osric near shouted. “He’s Barristan the Bold!”

“Agreed.” Jasper nodded.

“Well, going by Jasper’s logic, wouldn’t the Kingslayer’s youth win out?” Robar asked.

“Hey!” Jasper elbowed him. “Don’t use my argument against me. Besides, Ser Barristan’s an exception.”

“No, no Robar’s got a point,” Elron Elesham argued haughtily, to Osric’s splutters. “Ser Barristan’s old. Ser Jaime would just have to defend for a little while and then the Bold would tire, and he’d get an opening.” The heir to the Paps nodded to himself in a self-satisfied way.

“Bullshit!” Osric spat.

“It is not.” Elron seemed affronted.

“Is to!”

“Is not!”

Jasper and the others groaned. Osric and Elron switched with disturbing frequency from best of friends to bitter enemies. One minute they were arguing fiercely, even several times resorting to fist fights- all of which had ended inconclusively-, the next they had their arms round each other, a mug of ale each, and were claiming eternal friendship.

Jasper and the rest left the two of them to arguing.

“I can’t wait until we get to Seagard.” Robar grinned. “Think of all the Ironborn we’re going to kill!”

“As if you’re be killing anyone,” Jon Redfort smirked.

“I will!” Robar argued, standing up to emphasise his point, though that had slightly less effect than he would have wanted as he fell over as he did so. “I’m the best swordsman in the Vale! King Yorwyck Royce the Fourth reborn!”

He glared round at all of them, daring anyone to argue with Robar the Mighty. It was Hector who rose to the occasion.

“Please,” Hector slurred, “after your last spar with Jasper, you were limping more than a Flea Bottom whore after a full night’s shift.”

The rest roared with laughter, even Osric and Elron stopping their bickering to chortle at Robar’s expense. Robar’s cheeks tinged pink and he sat down.

“Not so confident now, little brother?” Ser Andar laughed from where he’d been talking to his cousin, Albar Royce, and Jon and Creighton’s elder brother, Ser Jasper Redfort.

“Fuck off!” Robar shouted, with hunched shoulders and ducked head.

His elder brother ignored him, instead staggering to his feet and wandering off towards another campfire, Albar and Ser Jasper quickly following him.

“He’s not completely wrong, though,” Elron said, when most of the laughter had subsided. “I can’t wait to earn my knighthood. Ser Elron of House Elesham has a nice ring to it, eh?”

“It sure does, brother,” Rolph Elesham, Elron’s quiet younger brother assured him.

“Keep dreaming, Elesham,” Ser Roland, the only anointed knight left amongst the group, snorted.

“As if you can talk, _Ser_ Roland.” Elron jutted his lip out petulantly. “How much gold did your grandmother promise Lord Belmore to knight you, again?”

Ser Roland was on his feet at once.

“Say that again, you pox-ridden islander,” the knight of Ironoaks spat, as Elron too climbed to his feet.

“Yeah? Pox-ridden?” Elron’s mouth curled unpleasantly. “Well why don’t you fuck off and crawl back inside your mother’s cunt where you belong, eh? Best for everybody, I think.”

Ser Roland took a menacing step forward, while Jasper groaned; why were drunks always so combative?

“You’re going to regret those words, Elron.”

“And I suppose you’re going to make me?”

The two stared each other down for several moments before Jasper concluded he needed to act.

“Peace!” Jasper interceded himself between them. “Enough of this bullshit! We’re about to go to war, we hardy need to be making enemies among our own ranks. I’m sure the lords and knights we serve would agree with me. Osric, get Ser Roland back to his tent. Rolph, do the same with your brother. It’s been a long day and we have a war to fight on the morrow. Time to call it a night.”

He glanced around with as much authority as he could muster and eventually Ser Roland and Elron took a step or two away from each other. Osric immediately led Ser Roland away with an arm around the Waynwood’s shoulders, sending Jasper a wink as he did so. Rolph hesitantly took his older brother’s arm and began to pull him in the other direction. Jasper tried to send him an encouraging smile, but the boy avoided his eyes, as he always did. Rolph, like many others, was hesitant in front of royal blood, despite being more than a year Jasper’s senior. Most, like Elron or Ser Roland, seemed to forget King Robert was his brother after a few nights drinking together, but for others, like Rolph, that fact would always be at the back of their minds, influencing their behaviour. Jasper didn’t know whether it was cautiousness or timidity- perhaps it was both.

“Well, it’s been a fun night,” Creighton Redfort lauhed, standing up with his brother. “Got right scary at the end there, my prince, but I reckon it’s time me and Jon retired before our father sends a search party.”

Jasper bid them both a good night tiredly. He cast his eyes around, looking for Robar, and found him hunched over a prone figure on the ground. Jasper began to approach and as he got closer he recognized the lying figure as a passed-out Hector. Lord Yohn’s second squire lay spread eagled in the grass, snoring softly. A line of dribble ran from the corner of his mouth to a small pool in the ground next to him. He stank of ale.

“Seven hells,” Jasper breathed. “How long has he been asleep?”

“He only just collapsed,” Robar replied, looking tempted to laugh.

“Great.” Japer said, flatly. “Your father will be so pleased.”

“He’ll understand,” Robar tried to assure him. “It’s our last night on the road before reaching Seagard, after all.”

“I doubt that, but miracles do happen,” Jasper sighed.

“So,” Robar began, after a moment, “you take his legs, I’ll take his arms?”

“Fine.”

Jasper took a solid hold of each of his friend’s legs, Robar doing the same with Hector’s arms, and both of them lifted him up. Jasper grunted with the exertion as they began to move towards Lord Yohn’s encampment, sidestepping a number of obstacles, from drunks to tents, as they did so. Jasper wondered idly how Hector could be so bloody heavy when he appeared to be relatively slim.

“Gods,” Robar gave voice to his thoughts, “we need to get Hector to lay off the meat. It’s like carrying a horse.”

“Be glad it’s not Osric,” Jasper warned, “we’d have already collapsed.”

Robar groaned at the mere thought. Hector muttered something in his sleep.

“You know,” Jasper said, panting, “when I begged your father to let me join you lot on the battlefield, this is really not what I had in mind.”

o-O-o

Jasper shouldered his way through the throng of people that filled the streets of Seagard. Soldiers bearing coats of arms from across the Seven Kingdoms on their livery intermingled with the regular townspeople, going to the market or visiting the numerous taverns and brothels that lined Seagard’s main street and the countless alleys beyond. Tens of thousands of men were camped below the town’s walls, preparing for the coming invasion, so the town was nearly overflowing with people.

Jasper and the rest of the Valemen contingent had arrived that morning and after setting up Lord Yohn’s tent with Hector and taking care of the horses, the Lord of Runestone had given Jasper leave to seek out Robert, who was lodging in Lord Mallister’s castle.

When he arrived at the bustling castle and gave his name to the guard captain on duty, he was quickly led up a great set of steps and down a long stone hallway to two large double doors of a deep mahogany. The guard escorting him knocked twice before pushing against the wood, the doors giving way with a low groan.

The hall beyond was large and grand, though smaller than the great halls of Storm’s End and Runestone. Large windows lined the long rectangular room, letting streams of silvery sunlight fall through and filling the space with dazzling sun rays. At the far end, on the raised dais, was a high table around which stood a group of armoured men, all staring at something on the table in concentration.  Jasper’s first footsteps clip-clopped loudly, carrying across the room and the men all looked up as one at his approach.

Jasper recognized few of them. Robert was hard to miss, of course, standing at the centre of the group with Ser Barristan at his shoulder. Stannis hovered at the fringes of the group, looking much the same as ever; hard-faced and keen-eyed, the Lord of Dragonstone showed little emotion. Jasper’s stomach flipped at the sight of the two of them, but he did not recognize any of the others, save from the Blackfish. There was another Kingsguard knight, who looked dead and lifeless standing in the shadows at the back of the hall, as well as a collection of fierce looking lords, sporting sigils that were familiar to Jasper, even if the men who bore them were not. A grey direwolf, a silver eagle, a cluster of grapes, a golden lion, a flayed man, a naked woman, a black and white boar; all were represented, along with a host of other houses from the North, Riverlands, Westerlands and Reach, and though Jasper could guess at some of the names of the men present, others were a mystery to him.

“Gods, _Jasper_!” Robert bellowed. Jasper’s eldest brother strode around the table and paced towards him quickly. “Bloody hells, that can’t be my little brother!”

“Ro-Your Grace…” Jasper stuttered as Robert reached him.

“Bah, I’ll have none of that ‘Your Grace’ shit,” Robert grinned, before stepping forward to seize him in a tight hug. Jasper could feel his ribs being crushed as he struggled to hug Robert back, and he could feel his brother’s wine-scented breath on his face. “Fuck, it’s been too long.”

“I’ve good to see you too,” Jasper told him honestly while Robert finally released him and took a step back.

Robert looked him up and down, studying him, and after a few moments he laughed with glee, seemingly satisfied. Clapping Jasper on the shoulder, he said, “You’ve grown to be a right maiden’s terror, little brother. It’s almost like looking in a mirror!”

Jasper wasn’t sure he agreed. He looked at Robert properly for the first time since entering the hall and found that the King of Westeros had grown stouter and wider around his middle. Jasper wouldn’t yet call him fat, but he was certainly not far off. His brother, it seemed, had become even fonder of feasts and food in the last few years than he already had been. He looked fearsome enough, though, dressed from head to foot in glinting steel with the black stag of House Baratheon leaping proudly across his chest.

Jasper smiled but was saved from replying by the coming of another of his brothers. Stannis’s approach was more measured than that of Robert’s and his greeting was more restrained.

“Jasper,” Stannis nodded. “You look well.”

“As do you, brother,” Jasper smiled. He held back from hugging the other man, knowing Stannis wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, especially in front of other lords. “I’m glad to see you once more. I was sorry I missed your wedding, something came up for Lord Yohn.”

“Understood.” Stannis said, after sending a glare towards Robert at the mention of his wedding. “It is pleasant to see you once more, also.”

Jasper smiled, knowing Stannis felt more than he said aloud, but Robert snorted in derision.

“As touching as ever, Stannis,” snarked Robert. He put an arm around Jasper’s shoulders and lead him forcefully to the raised dais where the various lords were watching the three of them, some curiously, some with amusement, and a couple showing no emotion at all. Jasper gulped under their gaze.

“For those who don’t know, my lords, this is my younger brother, Jasper, squire to Lord Yohn Royce,” Robert announced. Robert steered him in front of one man in particular, a solemn, long faced man with long brown hair and eyes as dark and cold as winter’s ice. “Jasper, this icy-faced bugger is Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell! Ned, this is Jasper.”

“We have met once before, Your Grace, though I doubt Prince Jasper would remember,” Lord Stark smiled slightly. “It is nice to see you all grown up, Prince Jasper.”

“And you, Lord Stark,” Jasper nodded, “I think I do remember, slightly. You came to Storm’s End after the rebellion to end the siege, but you didn’t stay for long.”

Lord Stark’s eyes darkened, and his brow furrowed. “No, I did not,” he said.

“And here’s the man of the hour,” Robert crowed, bringing forth a tall young man with intense blue-grey eyes, “Jasper, this is Lord Jason Mallister, who stole all the fun for himself and beat back the Ironborn, slaying Balon’s son and heir in the process!”

“It is an honour to meet you, my lord,” Jasper bowed his head, excited to meet such a man. “Your feats must be truly impressive, for my brother to praise you so.”

“The king flatters me, Your Grace,” Lord Jason said humbly and shortly.

Robert led him around, proudly introducing him to the host of lords. Some Jasper was glad to meet. He was thrilled to see Ser Barristan again, as well as the Blackfish, Ser Brynden Tully, who he had meet several times during his time in the Vale and who he was still in awe of. The lords Crakehall, Stackspear, Brax, Piper, Blackwood, Bracken, Lefford, Grimm, Bulwer, Hornwood, Mormont and a dozen others were courteous and polite, but a few troubled Jasper for differing reasons.

Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, scared him like no man before had. His pale, detached eyes bored into Jasper, and while his words of greeting were soft and mild-mannered, they somehow put Jasper ill at ease. Lord Tywin Lannister, cold and calculating, Jasper was also cautious of after what he’d heard about the man from Lord Yohn. As he greeted the Warden of the West, Jasper felt the man’s cool eyes on him constantly, as if judging him. He cut the greeting as short as he could without being rude.

It was Paxter Redwyne, Lord of the Arbor, who gave him the most pause, however. When introduced to the stooped, reedy lord Jasper had greeted one of the men who had once attempted to starve him with cool disdain. Lord Paxter’s smile had vanished and he had shifted uncomfortably until Lord Hornwood had skilfully changed the subject.

“May I inquire as to the whereabouts of the lords of the Vale, Prince Jasper?” Lord Tywin asked him quietly once all the introductions had finally been exhausted.

“They are just directing their men to the appropriate camping spots. I’m sure they will present themselves as soon as they can, Lord Lannister,” Jasper told the stern Lord of Casterly Rock.

“Well I’m glad you lot are finally here,” Robert boomed, “Now we can finally start fighting this war on our terms, my lords.”

“We all look forward to it, Your Grace,” Jonos Bracken, Lord of Stone Hedge, effused, to the muttered agreement of the other lords, with the notable exception of Tytos Blackwood.

“Perhaps it is best if we see to the final preparations, Your Grace?” Ned Stark addressed Robert. “It seems we have decided on a final battle plan.”

“Aye, Ned, I suppose you’re right,” Robert grunted. “Go to your men then, my lords, for we set sail on the morrow. But remember to return tonight,” Robert laughed clapping Jason Mallister on the shoulder, “Lord Jason is throwing a farewell feast. Should be one to remember, ha!”

“As you desire, Your Grace,” Lord Tywin bowed slightly, and moved stiffly towards the exit, his bannermen hurriedly following him after bows of their own.

 “Ned, want to stay for a goblet of wine or two, eh?” Robert jovially asked the Lord of Winterfell. “I fell like I’ve hardly spoken to you these last few days.”

“I’m afraid I must see to my men, Your Grace, if you permit.”

“Ah, fine,” Robert shrugged, “I’ll see you tonight then, eh? Go on then, off with the rest of you!”

With low bows the other lords shuffled out, striking up quiet conversations as they exited. Only Jasper, Robert, Stannis, Ser Barristan and the unknown Kingsguard remained.

Robert stared gloomily after his friend for a few moments, before his face cleared and he turned to Jasper.

“Come on, sit down,” Robert waved him towards the table, “Have a cup of wine.”

“Robert,” Stannis said in a warning tone.

“Oh, come on, Stannis, he’s ten-and-two!” Robert chuckled, pouring two glasses, as Jasper sat down gingerly. “I was more than a year younger the first time I got properly buggered. Ha!”

“We are not all you, Your Grace,” Stannis said testily.

Jasper cringed inside, hoping Lord Yohn did not divulge to Stannis that he was hardly a novice when it came to drink. He would hate for his brother to be disappointed in him.

Grudgingly Stannis sat down opposite Jasper and Robert. Tentatively Jasper took a small sip of the wine, a rich vintage which tasted Dornish, while Robert downed his glass in one and refilled it from the jar on the table in front of him.

“So,” Stannis began, as Robert slouched back in his chair and focused more on his wine, “Lord Yohn’s letters claim you thrive at Runestone.”

“I would hope so,” Jasper said, not quite sure what he was expected to say. “I have fun, I learn my letters, sums and histories from Maester Helliweg, and arms from Lord Yohn and Ser Samwell Stone. I’ve enjoyed my time thus far.”

“And how is the training?” Robert asked, leaning forwards. “Reckon you can beat your big brother in the yard yet, hmm?”

“With that belly you’ve grown?” Jasper asked. “Easily.”

Robert rumbled with laughter and thundered, “Why, you’ve grown bold, Jasper!”

“I’ve not lost a spar against another squire for half a year,” Jasper told them both proudly, only stretching the truth slightly, while Robert continued to laugh. “Ser Samwell says I’m a natural at both sword and lance, and I even nearly beat Lord Yohn once.”

“Bold, skilled and confident!” Robert chortled.

“Or hubris,” Stannis grouched, causing Robert to role his eyes. “I hope this doesn’t mean you think you’re ready for the front lines.”

“I go where Lord Yohn goes, brother,” Jasper said, trying to keep his cool. “If that is the front lines, so be it. That is my duty, as his squire. Are you not the one who taught me that duty comes before all else?”

“That is pure folly,” Stannis argued, “You are a prince of the blood and your duty is to the realm. Besides if it is warfare you crave so much, battles are won from generals behind the lines, not soldiers at the fore.”

“Oh, that’s utter bullshit and you know it, Stannis!” Robert said, shaking his head. “Battle plans and generals do not alone win battles. It’s men in the thick of it, getting their hands dirty.”

“I’m not a boy any longer, Stannis,” Jasper added darkly.

“Are you not?” Stannis calmly raised an eyebrow. “You are not a knight, nor are you at the age of manhood. Therefore, you are still just a boy.”

“That’s enough!” Robert roared. “Jasper shall fight with his lord, and that is an end to it.”

Reluctantly Stannis nodded and the three of them lurched into an uneasy silence. It made Jasper miss Renly, who was safe back in Storm’s End. Seeing his eldest brothers again had only made the separation from his twin more glaring. For the first eight or so years of his life Renly had been constantly by his side, but it had now been more than four years since he’d last seen him. Robar, Osric, Hector and the others had become extremely dear to him, but he wasn’t sure if his twin could ever really be replaced.

“So…” Jasper finally ventured cautiously, “Stannis, how was your wedding?”

Robert laughed, and Stannis gritted his teeth.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief description of rape this chapter. And quite a lot of gore and blood.

“Jasper!”

“Lord Royce?”

“Go find us some wine,” Lord Yohn grumbled sourly, “that bloody supply master only gave us mead. Good Westerosi wine, mind, none of that Essosi swill.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jasper replied, relieved that he wouldn’t have to help the other squires unload the crates and barrels off the large cargo ship that had carried them from Seagard to the currently burning town of Lordsport.

Jasper set off quickly into the cobbled streets of Lordsport, which was still in the last throes of destruction. Jasper and the Valemen force had not been part of the naval attack on Lordsport, nor of the assault on Castle Botley, instead arriving just as the sack was concluding, but Jasper saw the grisly evidence of his brother’s army’s work as he made his way through the largest town on the Iron Islands. Blood splotches, not yet dried, stained the stone ground and broken corpses littered the streets. Among the dead Jasper spotted men and women, but most hauntingly children, their small, lifeless figures strewn carelessly along the hard ground, often with crushed heads, disembowelled stomachs or missing limbs. Others had obviously been burned, their crusted skin as black as pitch. Jasper forged on, trying not to vomit up his breakfast, the dead children’s bloated faces still etched into his mind. Many of the mud and wattle houses had been destroyed or burnt to the ground but here and there a lone structure still stood, from which Jasper could hear men’s drunken singing and laughter, as well as women’s screams. The acrid taste of death and smoke filled his lungs, periodically sending him into great racking coughs.

He thought back to his goodbye with Stannis on Seagard, to take him mind off the devastation around him. Stannis was with Ser Barristan on Old Wyk, so they had had to say goodbye on the Seagard docks. Thankfully they had reconciled the evening before and he had spent most of Lord Jason’s feast with Stannis, who told him a little of how Renly was doing and about his duties as Master of Ships. Their goodbye had been about as emotional as their one four years ago at King’s Landing- which was extremely emotional for Stannis- and Jasper knew both of them had been thinking whether it was the last time they’d see the other. With a sigh, he put it out of his mind.

He passed countless soldiers from across the Kingdoms enjoying all the pleasures a sacked town offered the invading force. Countless passed-out sots lined the streets, while groups of marauding drunks marched passed singing the bawdiest of songs. Elsewhere Jasper passed a group of laughing soldiers huddled around a screaming girl, no older than Jasper himself, holding her naked form down as another man knelt between her open thighs, his bare arse plunging back and forth. Jasper averted his eyes and walked on.

On the next street over he really did throw up, bending behind the carcass of a dead horse to do so. Once his bowels were seemingly empty, he spat on the ground, then stood up, composed himself, and moved onwards.

As he passed more and more revelling soldiers, he grew worried that all the wine in Lordsport had already been drunk but eventually he managed to find an abandoned crate full of wine bottles in the ruins of what Jasper thought had been a storehouse. Huffing a sigh of relief, he knelt to examine the bottles.

“That wine, mate?”

Jasper turned to face a boy perhaps a year or two older than he stood in the doorway. Scrawny, with an uneven, crooked face and freckles doted across his cheeks, he was hardly a comely lad, but his cheerful expression and warm, brown eyes more than made up for it, in Jasper’s eyes. The boy approached in a swagger, still beaming, and as he got closer Jasper could make out the coat of arms emblazoned on his thin chest; a white catfish on a black background below a divided blue, red and green field. Probably from the Riverlands with that fish, he guessed, but he didn’t recognize it.

“It is,” he answered cautiously.

“Finally! Thank the Seven bloody Hells,” The boy laughed in relief. “Wouldn’t give me a bottle or two, would you? Only my lazy-assed brothers have had me looking for some wine for ages.”

Jasper considered for a moment before nodding slowly.

“Sure, how’s two bottles? I’d give you more, but Lord Yohn’s in a foul mood and I don’t want to make it worse.”

“Two bottles sound great,” the other boy said with a toothy smile. As Jasper passed him two of the bottles the boy said, “Cheers, mate. You’re saving my ass here.”

“It’s no trouble.” Jasper gave him a slight smile as he stood up carrying the crate with the rest of the bottles in his arms.

“The name’s Harys Shawney, by the way,” the boy said as they made there way out of the ruined building and onto the street outside. The bright sunlight made Jasper blink, his eyes stinging slightly. “Fourth son of Zachery Shawney, Lord of the Willows.”

Jasper inclined his head in greeting and said, “A pleasure.”

“So,” Harys began heartily, “who are you? Oh, is that Royce colours?”

“It is. I squire for Lord Yohn Royce,” Jasper told him. He shifted the crate into his left hand and held out his right hand. “Jasper Baratheon.”

Harys stopped dead in his tracks and blinked a few times before accepting Jasper’s hand grip with a wide grin.

“Maegor’s Teats, you kept that quiet,” Harys said with a laugh. A worried expression suddenly came over his face. “Shit, do I have to bow?”

“No, it’s-”

“Fuck, do I have to call you prince or lord?” Harys groaned. “Ah, I swore in front of the king’s brother! Twice!”

“Trust me, I don’t give a shit,” Jasper reassured him, smiling. “And just call me Jasper. I hate formal courtesies with a damn passion.”

“Right you are,” Harys winked at him, “I know what you mean, though you must get it more than me. My father’s just a minor Riverlord.”

“You’d think so but Lord Yohn’s pretty good at limiting all that stuffy official bullshit.” Jasper rolled his tense shoulders, as he continued to haul the crate towards the east end of the town. “Where’re you based?”

“Oh, I’m serving my eldest brother as squire and he, my father and the rest of my brothers are with Lord Bracken’s troops.” Harys pointed in a similar direction to where Jasper was headed. “We’re just by the eastern docks.”

“Not too far from Lord Yohn’s levy then,” Jasper pointed out.

“We’ll walk together then.” Harys grinned. “So, how long have you squired for Lord Yohn?”

“Fours years now I think, though I served as a page for…”

Jasper’s words died in his throat as he heard a woman’s high-pitched scream coming from a close building. The shriek seemed to last hours before it was cut abruptly short. In the quiet that followed a baby bean to cry, it’s shrill, wailing tones carrying across the street though none of the cheerful men that Jasper could spy celebrating nearby took any notice. The baby’s cry, too, died off suddenly.

The two squires shared an uneasy glance then forged onwards, this time in total silence.

o-O-o

Jasper let out a ragged, unsteady breath. He could hear the whispered prayers and hushed cries of the men around him. A heavy sense of foreboding and dread hung in the air, casting a dark shroud over the soldiers and knights waiting to storm the castle of Pyke, the seat of House Greyjoy.

“Relax, lads,” Lord Yohn intoned, from his place at the front of the Valemen troops. “No matter how scared you are, remember those fucking traitors in there are a thousand times more scared. They’re shitting themselves at the mere thought of us breaking through those walls.”

Once again Jasper was surprised, and a little in awe, of how calm and measured his mentor was before battle.

“Let show these rapist fuckers what real steel is made of!” Shouted a man-at-arms from the midst of the troops and many joined in, jeering and insulting the Islanders entombed inside the castle before them. Jasper quickly joined in; it helped calm him.

The Royce host, along with many of the other Valemen, had been positioned with the Northerners and the king’s own household troops in the centre of the army, ready for the first charge. Jasper squinted and could just make out his brother’s bulky form several hundred paces away, next to two white-cloaked members of the Kingsguard, the Warden of the North, Eddard Stark, and a few other notable knights and lords. Clad in plate metal and with a huge Warhammer strapped to his back, King Robert looked every inch the fearsome warrior that had won his crown at the Trident.

“Looks like the catapults are doing their work,” Ser Andar noted, as a large stone boulder impacted with one of Pyke’s castle towers with a loud boom.

“Aye,” agreed Lord Yohn, “shan’t be long now.”

“Good.” Robar said. “I can’t stand the waiting.”

“You’d better stand it,” Lord Yohn reprimanded. “Impatience will get you nothing but an early grave, son. You have seen only twelve name days- I, and your mother, would prefer if you saw at least a few more.”

Robar reddened and looked at his feet.

“Ah, don’t be so harsh on the lad.” Ser Desmond came to Robar’s defence. “You remember the eagerness of youth I’d bet, my lord. We’re all like that at that age.”

“There is a fine line between eagerness and stupidity.” Lord Yohn replied, not taking his eyes of the walls of Pyke.

“As you say, my lord.” Ser Desmond bowed his head.

Jasper patted his friend on the back consolingly but did nothing more. He had more pressing issues to worry about, namely the several hundred Ironborn who awaited them inside Pyke. Another crash sounded as, again, the catapults found their target.

Jasper noticed a Septon, dressed in white robes, was making his way passed the front ranks, speaking to the nervous, and sometimes whimpering, men.

“Do not fear, brothers, should you fall the Father shall welcome you into his arms. Be happy with the knowledge you fight for a good, worthy cause against the heathens!”

Robar, Lord Yohn and Hector all received blessings from the Septon, before he reached Jasper. He bowed his head when the Septon came to him.

“May the Warrior guide your arm, my son.”

“Thank you, Septon.”

The Septon smiled at him, blessed him and moved on to Ser Andar and Osric. The sobs and desperate prayers around him were getting louder, as everyone sensed the order to attack was not for off. Several cracks could be seen on the surface of Pyke’s walls and the barrage of missiles the castle faced was relentless. Jasper wondered what it must be like to hear and feel the catapult fire from inside Pyke’s walls; outside, several hundred meters away, it was terrifying.

He smelt the urine and shit of those men around him who hadn’t followed Lord Yohn’s advice and loosened their bowels immediately before leaving their camp. The smell was awful and almost overpowering, but Jasper tried to put it out of his mind and focus.

He could feel the cold sweat trickle down from underneath his fastened, glinting helm and run down his face. His right leg tapped incessantly on the muddy ground. Jasper kept his gloved left hand resting on the pommel of his sword, always sure to be ready, as Lord Yohn and Ser Samwell had taught him. His mouth was as dry as the sands of Dorne, but he had no water skin. He took long, calming breaths to settle himself but it scarcely worked, and he licked his lips anxiously.

This was would not be the first time he had faced combat, having crossed swords with Mountain Clansmen in the Vale twice before this day, but he had never killed a man. Both times he had only held off a warrior before Ser Andar or Lord Yohn rescued him. He was both completely, mind-numbingly terrified, and excited to the point of relish.

“One more hit…” Ser Samwell murmured.

“What?” Jasper asked, in a raspy breath that he wouldn’t have recognised as his own voice.

“One good hit and that bastard’s going down.” The master-at-arms motioned to the large tower that dominated the south walls of Pyke.

He was right.

Not thirty seconds later the tower was hit again, the massive stone smashing into the base of the main watchtower. There was an eerie silence for half a second, then the groaning sound of stone cracking. A massive chasm appeared from where the catapult had hit, and it was clear to everybody that the hit section was coming down. Jasper could just make out the panicked yells from the Ironborn atop the walls before the main tower came crashing down, bringing down much of the walls around it. He could barely see through the smoke and debris that went up as the great stone walls of Pyke were destroyed. The screams of dying Ironborn were drowned out by the massive cheer that went up from the loyalist troops.

“DO YOU SEE?” Boomed his royal brother, his powerful voice carrying across the army. “THOSE FUCKING SQUIDS ARE NO MATCH FOR OUR MIGHT! FOR OUR COURAGE!”

“Remember,” Lord Yohn said quietly to Jasper, Robar, Hector and Osric, “keep aware of your surroundings and try to stay close to me or Ser Samwell or Andar. Don’t rush too far into enemy lines- you’ll be surrounded and butchered.”

“READY!” Robert continued. “READY FOR BATTLE, BRAVE BROTHERS!”

“And keep your shield up at all times as we approach the opening. Clear?” Lord Yohn looked sternly at the squires. They nodded. Jasper could hear his heart beating mercilessly like a blacksmith’s hammer and his breath was becoming shorter and shorter.

“ONWARDS!” Robert bellowed. “FUCKING CHARGE!”

With a great roar, they charged.

Jasper’s feet seemed to work of their own volition as he surged forward with the rest of the army. The run felt almost endless, a marathon of wet mud and splattered blood. He kept pace with those around him until they reached the edge of the stone rubble. There the arrows started to rain down on them and everything devolved into utter chaos.

Remembering Lord Yohn’s advice, Jasper kept his shield up and heard a thud as an arrow hit it, sending a shudder up his left arm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ser Desmond go down, an arrow sprouting from his eye, but he kept moving, jumping over a body bearing the crest of house Manderly, who had obviously pulled too far ahead of the rest of the army. Another arrow flew by him, missing his head by a hair and catching the man-at-arms behind in the throat, the man going down whilst gargling up blood.

Jasper could feel the adrenaline and blood rush flowing through his body as he kept moving, past dead bodies, injured men and slower soldiers. Lord Yohn was older and slower and soon feel behind, while Hector was caught up in a rush of bodies moving away from him. He had no idea where Ser Samwell, Ser Andar, Robar, Osric were or any of the other Royce men, as the army had become disorganised and incoherent, all running for the same breach. Valemen, Rivermen, Crownlanders, Northmen and others from across Westeros rubbed shoulder to shoulder as they sprinted for the crumbled opening that the catapults had made.

He almost slipped on a pool of water, or perhaps blood, but managed to regain his footing and resume his pace. The crush of bodies began to thin as more and more men fell behind. He realised with a jolt that he was near the front of the army, less than a hundred soldiers in front of him. They were only thirty paces from the breach now, where he spied a fierce group of Ironborn waiting for them, formed up in a shield-wall. They stood as still as marble statues, eyes unblinking as they awaited, a wall of grey steel and grim faces.

He saw a man in red armour who, by virtue of the flaming sword that swung wildly in his hand, had to be Thoros of Myr, rush up the rubble of what remained of Pyke’s main watchtower. Jasper watched in awe as Thoros jumped straight into the breach, waving his fire-sword around manically, scattering part of the hasty Ironborn shield wall. A tall northerner followed behind the wild Essosi’s wake, just in front of several brightly clad knights with great plumes flowing from their helmets. The man beside Jasper went down howling for his mother but Jasper ignored him and stormed onwards, unheeding of the throbbing in his legs and the burning of his lungs. The arrows became more frequent the nearer they got to the breach and Jasper felt a few more arrows strike his kite shield, lodging themselves firmly in the wooded surface. He muttered a curse; the shield would be near useless in melee if it was littered with so many arrows.

Finally, he reached the main opening. Before he could be overcome with hesitation and doubts, he rushed into the gap that Thoros and the others had made and was immediately advanced upon by the nearest Ironborn. Jasper forced himself to focus on the foe in front of him, a scarred, older warrior who rushed at Jasper as soon as he came near. Remembering his training, Jasper calmly blocked the man’s axe swing with his shield. Quickly he countered with a shield bash to the man’s face. The Ironborn snarled and tried to bring his axe back for another swing but Jasper was too close, and long-axes were not built for such close range. He feinted to the right with his sword and when the man made to doge it, he let the sword dip into the man’s right calf. The man wailed in pain, but it was cut short when Jasper stabbed quickly and forcefully upwards. The sword tip took the man in the top of the throat and came out at the back of the man’s head, breaking skull and spine. The man crumpled when Jasper extracted his sword.

He had no time to dwell on his first kill, however, as two men came rushing at him as one, shields locked together. Jasper knew he couldn’t take them both on, so he retreated back two steps and planted himself defensively. He quickly deflected the first man’s strike easily with his sword and then blocked the second man’s swing that followed immediately afterwards. The first man moved to strike again but Jasper dodged to the side, away from the thrust, and the man followed through too much, falling slightly forwards. But before Jasper could make a counterattack the second man was on him. This man, a long-haired, dirty wretch who was poorly equipped, seemed to have decided to rely on brute strength and savagely tore Jasper’s shield from his hand, following up by shoving the pommel of his sword into Jasper’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. The man smirked and raised his rusted sword high, but Jasper was faster and lashed his sword out in a savage cut across the man’s torso. The man grunted and with a kick in the shins from Jasper fell to his knees. Jasper stabbed his sword into the man’s chest breaking through armour, skin and bone, before impaling his heart. He quickly removed his sword and looked up, scanning for the second man.

Pain, white-hot and sudden, clouded his mind and Jasper was forced unwilling to his knees. His head ached from the unanticipated attack and it took him several moments to realise that it had come from behind. Glancing back, he caught a glimpse of a snarling blonde-haired man with a rough wooden club high in the air, ready to strike- the second man. Sure that this was his end, Jasper lowered his eyes to the ground. But in the next second, he felt a splash of blood across his face and the body of his assailant soon feel before him, still stuttering his last spasms of life and bleeding profusely from his mouth, a pole-axe lodged firmly in his back. Before Jasper could thank the man-at-arms who had saved his life, the man was gone again, rushing into the greater melee where the Ironborn still held.

Sluggishly, Jasper staggered back to his feet, his head still spinning.

More and more men were streaming into the breach so that there were hundreds of ferocious soldiers fighting in the large open space of the breach, a mix of smaller individual duels and larger melees of near a hundred men where the Ironborn presence was stronger. Jasper spotted Thoros of Myr, who seemed to have an injury, as his left arm hung limply, but he continued to ward men off with the flaming sword clutched in his right hand. He couldn’t spot any of his friends or any Royce men. He could scarcely even see what was happening from one moment to the next.

A heavily armoured, axe-yielding figure stepped in Jasper’s path. His helm was open, revealing a sneering, unpleasant face. Fires of fury and hatred were smouldering in the man’s narrowed eyes as he took one look at Jasper and spat at his feet.

“Come on, boy,” he man goaded, despite looking a young man himself. “Come test your Greenlander metal against my axe.”

Jasper was in no mood to trade insults. He charged him.

The man appeared skilled and the confidence oozed out of him. Perhaps the man was dangerous; he didn’t give a shit.

He rained a flurry of furious blows down on the man. The Ironborn blocked them all but he became more desperate and slower when Jasper’s strikes continued unabated. He tried a few counter swings, but Jasper skilfully dodged and deflected them all, before continuing his barrage of merciless blows.

This, he realised in the savage madness of the fight, was why Robert loved fighting so much. This was a mad joy, Jasper thought as he danced around the other man, a sword joy, a battle joy. He had never felt such energy, and purpose. A grin had morphed onto his face, he knew, as he continued his barrage of blows and he felt like a god, the Warrior himself or the Father above, like he was high in the clouds with this pathetic man’s life in his hands. And so it would prove.

The man showed his skill first, however, swininging his massive axe sideways, making Jasper sidestep nimby away from a blow that could have caved in his breastplate. The man advanced but any fear that Jasper had once felt had vanished like morning dew, the battle joy was still on, and Jasper struck at the man like a viper. Once, twice, two hissing thrusts that lashed forwards with accuracy and a mighty strength that he had honed in five long years of learning the art of swordcraft. He may not be a man grown but he was tall for his age, and strong for his age, and that was all he needed.

And then the man failed to block one of Jasper’s attacks, whether through tiredness or surprise or lack of concentration Jasper would never know, a stab that went through his left shoulder, and then it was a simple case of using the injury to his advantage and disarming the man. He sent his axe clattering to the ground and then swiftly slit his throat with the sharp edge of his blade.

He felt invincible.

Another man ran at Jasper, but he was clearly unskilled, and he lost first his hand, then his head. He lifted his sword to the heavens and roared a war cry.

He glanced around, looking for someone else to kill, but found that many of the Ironborn had regrouped further away. Already royalist troops were forming into an attacking formation and Jasper rushed to join them. The apparent leader of the impromptu group, a young man, his livery emblazoned with three silver fish on a blue field, gestured to the waiting Ironborn, many of whom were now shifting backwards, and bellowed, “Kill them all!” The men let out hoots of agreement and charged the waiting Ironborn, Jasper following eagerly. Some broke and ran but many more stayed, gritted their teeth and fought. The Ironborn were a tough lot and many of them wouldn’t go without a fight. Or perhaps they saw the futility of breaking and running while trapped inside a besieged castle.

The next minutes, or perhaps it was an hour, were a blur.

No matter their bravery, the Ironborn resistance was divided and weak, and the troops of King Robert quickly overran them. The main bulk of the army poured into the breach and split off into the different towers and sections of the walls. The castle of Pyke, seat of House Greyjoy, the lords of the Iron Islands, was falling.

The exhaustion finally caught up with him in a small room adjoining one of the larger towers left standing. Thinking he was alone, he felt it safe to collapse on to a sack of grain, groaning with tiredness and something else he couldn’t quite name. He looked down at himself numbly, barely taking in the blood-soaked clothing, the dented armour and the dirty grime that seemed to cover every inch of his skin.

A hand grabbed his ankle.

His sword was out in the blink of an eye, though the blade shook some in his hand.

In the low flickering light, he saw a man, a ghost of pale skin, white eyes and shallow, grating breaths. He was older than Jasper, but a young man still, with smooth skin, dark from the dirty filth that covered him, and his grip on Jasper’s ankle was surprisingly strong, though getting weaker every second. His head was mattered with blood and a gash across his stomach was seeping blood, for all that the man kept his other hand clamped over it. He wore no livery or coat of arms and Jasper knew not whether the man was an Ironborn or mainlander.

“H-Help… me...” the man-at-arms rasped.

Cautiously, and still shaking, Jasper put his sword aside and lowered himself so that he knelt at eye level with the injured soldier.

“Come on, then,” Jasper said softly, gripping the man on the shoulders and using his last vestiges of strength to lift him up slightly. “Let’s get you on here. You’ll be more comfortable.”

The man groaned as Jasper dragged him a few paces and placed him lightly down on the grain sack he’d just vacated. He crouched down to inspect the man’s wound, moving the soldier’s hand slightly to get a better look. He was dismayed when he found it was deep, the blood still flowing. Much of the skin was pulled back and Jasper glimpsed the man’s inner intestines. He could smell the acrid stink of leaking guts and he knew that the man-at-arms was a dead man.

“I-Is it… b-bad?” The man asked, between deep racking breaths.

Jasper couldn’t bring himself to lie.

“You’ll feel better soon. The pain will be gone, and you will be with the Gods, to laugh and feast until the end of days in the Father’s golden hall.”

The man stared at him for a moment before nodding shakily.

“Well,” the man said, smiling the tiniest of smiles, “t-that doesn’t… sound t-t-too bad, eh?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jasper said, thickly, as he leant forwards to clasp the man’s hand within his own.

After several moments the man spoke again, sounding detached, “It f-feels a l-little better… now. I… I can’t really f-feel anything. It’s all… numb.”

“What’s your name, then?” Jasper asked, trying to draw the man’s attention away from his imminent death.

“T-Turec,” the man coughed, “me name’s Turec.”

“And where are you from?”

“O-Old Ferry,” Turec said, his eyes beginning to glaze over. “A small village, aye…”

“Tell me about it, Turec of Old Ferry. Of home.”

“It lies n-near the G-Green Fork,” Turec murmured, his voice quiet, “on a hill. A t-tall hill, mind. O-On clear d-days at the h-height of summer you can see for m-miles around. All the w-way to O-Oldstones, I s-s-swear.”

“I believe you,” Jasper assured him. “It sounds wonderful.”

“It is…”

Turec made a sudden move, taking Jasper by surprise. Jasper could only watch as the man reached up and tugged a small medallion from around his neck, kissed it softly, and held it out for Jasper to take. Hesitantly Jasper did so.

“T-Take it,” Turec said. “Me Da made it… he’s the s-smithy, you see… I…”

Turec slumped backwards with one last breath.

Jasper gulped and glanced down at the talisman. It was simple design; a small boy was laughing and running along a great wide river, following the path it made as it arced ever onwards. The craftsmanship was crude and the metal cheap, certainly not something a highborn lord would wear, but Jasper put his head through the course cord nonetheless and tucked the medallion under his jupon.

He closed Turec’s wide eyes, picked up his sword and left.

o-O-o

Jasper walked through the main courtyard as if in a daze, his head clouded and every muscle in his body tired. Around him many appeared to be in a similar state, sitting and staring into nothingness. Others were hard at work, clearing away the bodies or carrying the injured to the medical tents back at the camp. It was slow work, however. Bodies still littered the bloodied ground leading up to the breach while at the breach itself there was a mountain of corpses of both Ironborn and mainlanders which continued into the courtyard and castle proper.

“Jasper! Oi, Jasper!”

He frowned. Was someone calling to him or was it just his mind playing tricks on him?

“Jasper over here, you bloody bugger!”

He blinked and glanced to his left. Osric’s ecstatic face greeted him for just a second before the other boy leaped forwards and wrapped him in a hug. Two more thuds announced the arrival of Robar and Hector, and Jasper soon found himself being smothered in his friends’ embrace. Despite himself Jasper felt himself smiling.

“Yeah, alright, get off me now!”

The three of them laughed and stepped back, all grinning. Hector was, like Jasper, covered in blood, yet it didn’t seem he had been injured. Osric and Robar looked dirty, with a few specks of dried blood on their faces, but were not covered in it as he and Hector were.

“We’ve been looking all over for you! Where the bloody hell did you get to?” Robar asked.

Rubbing his brow, Jasper replied, “One of the towers. Not sure which one.”

“Ah, and our prince finally arrives,” came the bland voice of Lord Yohn.

Jasper looked behind his fellow squires to see Lord Yohn, Ser Andar, Ser Samwell and several of Lord Yohn’s household knights approaching. When they reached them Andar hugged him, but Lord Yohn only clapped him on the shoulder, though Jasper could read the relief in his face. Ser Samwell just nodded. Lord Yohn raised an eyebrow at Jasper’s bloody sword.

“I had heard you acquitted yourself well in the fight at the breach,” he said. His voice sounded neither approving nor scolding. “Ser Myles saw you take down two men, and likely you killed more.”

“Ugh!” Robar exclaimed. “Lucky bastard, me and Osric got stuck at the back. We had to help with the captives.”

Jasper frowned, not thinking that ‘lucky’ was exactly the way he’d put it. He turned back to Lord Yohn.

“Is Ser Desmond dead?” he asked. “I saw him go down but…”

“Aye, lad,” Lord Yohn sighed. “I have men preparing his body now.”

Jasper nodded sadly; he’d expected as much, though he was still filled with sadness remembering the man who had helped him hold a lance properly and taught him how to hunt boar.  

“Come on,” Lord Yohn said, waving him towards the corner of the courtyard, “you need water and food. We have both.”

As they walked over, Jasper found himself walking beside Hector.

“So,” Hector began, “how many’d you kill?”

“Five or six,” Jasper said dully. “You?”

“Four, including Lord Botely’s brother,” Hector replied in a similar tone. “Lord Yohn knighted me a moment ago.”

“Oh, shit,” Jasper said, with a laugh. “Well, congratulations and all that. Shit. Your Ser Hector now. You! Ser!”

“Yes, that was pretty much Osric’s reaction as well,” Hector said with a rueful laugh.

“Your father’s going to be beside himself,” Jasper said knowingly. “His eldest son a knight at five-and-ten!”

“He’ll hold it over my uncles, for sure,” Hector shook his head incredulously.

Jasper laughed again and slapped his friend on the back.

“Well, none deserve it more, Ser Hector Hunter.”

“Ah, _Ser_ Hector told you, did he?” Osric grinned, turning back to them and eyeing Hector. “Already lording it over us, I see.”

“Oh, do fuck off, Wayn,” Hector drawled.

“And now he’s giving us orders,” Robar crowed dramatically.

“Jasper,” Lord Yohn shoved a waterskin full of water and a large cut of dried mutton in his hand. “Eat. Now.”

Jasper did as he was bid, scoffing the food and water down like a wild animal. The others chuckled at him, but he ignored them and focused on filling his stomach. He finished two pieces of mutton, half a loaf of bread and two full waterskins before he was satisfied. When he was done he sat back, content, with Hector, Andar, Robar, Osric and the other knights and squires talking and laughing around him and Ser Samwell still ordering soldiers all over the place, until Lord Yohn took him aside for a private word.

“You have done yourself, your house and me proud today, Jasper,” Lord Yohn told him. “Indeed, many would say you have earned your knighthood. You are certainly skilled enough and you have now killed, too. But those things are not what makes a true knight, Jasper. A high kill count does not earn you knighthood, nor does bravery, though it certainly helps. You are young still and your time will come, soon most likely. But it is not this day.”

“I understand, my lord,” Jasper bowed his head. Knighthood was the last thing on his mind after this day, not after all the killing and the chaos and the battle joy. Perhaps it’s importance would return the next day, but for now all he felt was happiness for Hector. “I’m happy to continue to be your squire for a couple more years at least, my lord. Your sole squire now.”

Lord Yohn laughed, “Yes, there is that.”

Jasper glanced at the men sorting through the dead bodies around him.

“Where are they being taken?”

“I believe a large bonfire has been built just outside the walls,” Lord Yohn said.

“As in a funeral pyre?” Jasper was shocked. “Do they not get a proper burial?”

“The highborn will.” Lord Yohn sighed at his expression. “It’s best not to dwell on it. Come, eat some more!”

Robert found him a half hour later. Bloodied and battered, his eldest brother looked perhaps the happiest Jasper had ever seen him. He took one look at Jasper, then laughed long and hard. He pulled Jasper to his feet and clapped him on the back so hard Jasper swore he was lifted off his feet slightly.

“Ha, look at you! Kill you a few squids, did you?” Robert laughed again. “Ha, I bet you bloody did. Well, did you have fun, little brother?”

“It was… quite something, Robert.”

“Oh, your first battle always is!” Robert exclaimed, red-faced. “Come on, then, how many did you get?”

“Er, about five. I think.” Jasper scratched his head.

“Five! Not bloody bad at all,” Robert grinned. “Lord Yohn, I bet you had fun! Always do with that huge fucking great sword. So, going to knight my baby brother? Or should I do it?”

“It was a fine battle, Your Grace,” Lord Yohn said neutrally. “Your brother acquitted himself well, but I think I’ll keep him as my squire for a little longer, if it please Your Grace.”

“Oh, fine!” Robert rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He put his arm around Lord Yohn’s shoulders. “Lord Tywin’s already promised to hold a victory tourney at Lannisport, you know. I hope I can get on your attendance?”

“I wouldn’t miss it, Your Grace.”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t, you old dog!” Robert bellowed. He turned back to Jasper. “Come to my tent tonight for ale and celebration, brother! And bring your friends!”

“We’ll be there!” Robar rushed to answer before Jasper could say anything. Jasper shot him a glare but was ignored.

“Excellent!” Robert released Lord Yohn from his grip.

“Your Grace!”

They all turned to see Lord Eddard Stark approaching.

“We have him, Your Grace,” Lord Eddard said. “Shall I bring him forth?”

Robert’s face morphed into something more serious, as men began to gather round.

“Aye, Ned,” Robert nodded, “Bring the bastard out!”

Jasper watched as Balon Greyjoy, lord of the Iron Islands, was brought before Robert in chains. Two men-at-arms gripped both his arms as they hauled him through the watching crowd of knights and soldiers who seemed to have appeared in the last few minutes. Many of Robert’s army were dead, more injured, and more, still, were securing other parts of Pyke but many had gathered to watch Balon Greyjoy be humbled, it seemed.

Balon was an extremely thin man with matted, greying hair. His hard face held no regret or defeat. He held his head high, even as he was forced to his knees in front of Robert. The Lord of Pyke stared with cold, black eyes at the King for several tense seconds, before dipping his head a fraction of an inch.

“Your Grace.” The words were spoken quietly but every man watching heard him.

“Balon Greyjoy.” Robert stated, sounding unusually serious. “You have started, and lost, a war that has killed thousands and wrought havoc on your own lands, as well as other lands within my dominion. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Balon Greyjoy remained silent for a few moments, before speaking in a loud, defiant voice. “You may take my head," he told the king, "but you cannot name me traitor. No Greyjoy ever swore an oath to a Baratheon."

There were murmurs and scoffs in the crowd, even one or two laughs that were quickly shushed. Jasper, too, was a little disgusted at the man’s excuse. The Greyjoy couldn’t get out of it on a mere technicality, he thought.

Robert, however, let out a bark of laughter. Jasper could see his brother was amused by the answer, and a little pleased. He liked Greyjoy’s spirit.

“Swear one now," the king replied, "or lose that stubborn head of yours."

And so, he did. The Lord of Pyke swore his oath and was pardoned. It did not come without a price, though. Two children, a girl and a boy who looked only two or so years younger than Jasper himself, were brought before the king shaking with fear.

“You can keep the girl,” Robert told Balon. “But the lad will be taken as a… ward.”

It was clear the boy was a hostage and that, should Balon rise again, the boy would die. Jasper glanced at the boy who was now looking frightened, his wide eyes darting from his sister to his father, looking for guidance. He found none, and Jasper could see the tears welling up.

It was Lord Eddard who stepped forward and seemed to take pity on the boy.

“Let me take him, Your Grace,” the Warden of the North said. “I have sons not much younger. Might be, the boy can befriend them. I’ll treat him well.”

“You sure, Ned?” Robert asked. Lord Eddard nodded.

“Say your goodbyes and pack your things,” Lord Eddard addressed the boy sternly, but not unkindly. “We leave tomorrow.”

The boy looked top his father once more and, finding no comfort, nodded uncertainly.

“You’ll be treated well at Winterfell, boy, don’t worry,” Robert said, “No one is more honourable than Lord Eddard. Now run along.”

As the Greyjoy family were led away, Jasper watched as Robert turned to Lord Eddard.

“Why the bloody hell did you do that?”

“He’ll have a better life at Winterfell than he ever would do in the capital,” the Lord of Winterfell said. He looked at Robert. “The boy is not to blame for his father’s faults. No child is.”

Robert shrugged, then grinned. “Now for the best part!” He turned to the crowd. “Bring forward Lord Mormont and the others.”

From out of the crowd stepped Jorah Mormont, the Lord of Bear Island. Lord Jorah looked dead on his feet, but he held his head high as he bowed before King Robert. Behind him followed a man dressed in the colours of House Orme of the Reach, and an older squire that Jasper had come to know in the Vale, Horton Hersy.

“Lord Jorah,” the King jovially addressed the Northerner first, “what a sight that was! Like the rebellion all over again, eh? I remember you at the Trident. A glorious day that was, and so is this one!”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jorah said.

“Now I know you lot up north don’t have many knights, but you can’t very well refuse a knighthood from a king. So, on your knees, my lord.”

Lord Jorah did so. Before hundreds of watching eyes, Robert laid his sword on Lord Jorah’s right shoulder.

“Do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves,” Robert asked, “to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“I do, your grace,” the Lord of Bear Island said loudly.

Cheers sounded from the circle of men watching, but all still heard the king’s next words.

“Then rise as Ser Jorah Mormont, Lord of Bear Island.”

Robert did the same with Horton Hersy and Gyles Orme, as well as half a dozen others. Half a hundred others had also distinguished themselves enough to earn knighthoods from other high lords and renowned knights. Jasper slipped away from the throng at about the time Ser Mandon Moore, the dead-faced Kingsguard he had seen at Seagard, was knighting a newly-crippled Jacelyn Bywater, the man who had led the main charge Jasper was a part of.

He wandered outside of the walls for some fresh air but came face to face with the massive funeral pyre that was blazing. Soldiers continued to chuck corpses into the searing fire unceremoniously. Jasper watched the spectacle for a few moments dazedly, then turned away. He was going to head back towards Lord Yohn and the others when he spotted a familiar figure sat on the ground not far away.

“Rolph!” Jasper called to the second son of Lord Elesham. He walked towards the other boy. “What’re you doing?”

Rolph Elesham looked up at him with red eyes.

“Oh, Prince Jasper,” Rolph stood up with a grimace. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive. What of Hector, Robar and Osric?”

“All alive, thank the Gods, and Hector with a knighthood, too,” Jasper smiled. He glanced at Rolph’s red eyes once more. “Elron?”

Rolph shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, he brought two of the cunts with him, at least. Fucking, fucking cunts!” Rolph shouted, his words spitting venom. He breathed out deeply and seemed to compose himself. “Apologies, my prince, my words were unbecoming.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Jasper said quietly. “He was your brother.”

“Yes.” Rolph looked away from him. “He wasn’t always the easiest to get along with, but…”

“He could be,” Jasper said. “Osric proved that.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Rolph said distantly.

Jasper didn’t know what else to say so he kept silent, allowing Rolph his private grief.

The two stood there for another quiet minute, listening to the moving tides of the waves on the shores of Pyke and the ominous crackling sound of the funeral pyre.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay second real fight scene in the fic and I’d really like your feedback on how I handled this pretty important event and fight scenes in general. Too rushed? Too long? Too much talking? I’m not quite sure where I stand to be honest so love to hear your opinions. There’ll be another time jump to next chapter so see you then.


	8. Chapter Eight

_291 AC_

They rode as a party of thirteen. Lord Yohn was in the lead, riding a massive chestnut destrier, the wind whipping its mane into the air like flickering flames. Jasper followed with the standard, the banner of House Royce lashing against the wind much like the horses’ manes. Next to him was the hedge knight Ser Alton of the Leaves, a recent acquisition to the Royce household, with Ser Garret Roote and his nephew and squire, Terrance Roote, following behind. Brining up the rear were eight Royce men-at-arms, identical in their scaled armour, livery emblazoned with the black runes of Runestone over a field of bronze, and the castle-forged steel swords strapped to their side.

The blazing summer sun was high in the sky and the chirping of the birds carried clearly through the hazy air. With the Mountains of the Moon stretching out for miles behind them, and scenic glens, vales and narrow running streams shadowing the group either side, the view was picturesque. Just two hours out from the Gates of the Moon, where Lord Yohn had been meeting his cousin Lord Nestor Royce about the rule of the Vale with Lord Arryn in King’s Landing, there was no castle or civilisation to be seen for miles around. Wild and wilful and beautiful; there was nowhere in the world, Jasper thought, quite like the Vale of Arryn.

“Not like Lord Harroway's Town, eh, Roote?” he shouted back to Terrance with a grin. While not as close to Terrance as he was to Robar or Osric or Hector, Jasper had come to call the Riverman friend in the year the other boy had been in Runestone, especially as both Osric and Hector were now knighted and were rarely in Runestone.

“Not quite,” laughed Terrance. “A lot less people, and a lot more rocks, sheep and barbarians. Oh, and less rivers, of course. We have a great many rivers.”

“Ah, that’s why they call it the Riverlands!” Jasper said slowly and loudly. “I hadn’t bloody realised.”

“Quiet back there,” Lord Yohn called over his shoulder as Terrance laughed.

“Sorry, Lord Yohn,” Jasper said with a smile and a roll of his eyes, Terrance echoing him.

“I know you just rolled your eyes, Baratheon,” Lord Yohn admonished without looking back.

“How in the Seven Hells could you know that?” Jasper asked.

“Because I know you,” Lord Yohn told him. “You may have just turned four-and-ten, Jasper, but you are still my squire, and you will do as your told. Now shut up.”

Jasper did as he was told, trying to ignore Terrance’s muffled snickers and Ser Alton and Ser Garret’s amused glances.

As he sent a glare Terrance’s way, he felt his horse jerk beneath him. He heard a yell of pain from behind him but before he could look over his shoulder, his horse, a usually placid palfrey, suddenly reared up, neighing desperately, causing him to fall backwards and drop the standard he was carrying on the ground. As he fell to the ground in a painful heap, he glimpsed several arrows sticking out of his horse’s side before it stumbled and collapsed to the ground, still whining manically. Jasper staggered to his feet, ignoring the stinging pain in his hip. Clumsily, he grasped at the sword at his waist several times before he managed to fumble it out of his scabbard; he was still in a state of shock.

Up ahead Lord Yohn already had his greatsword out and was wheeling his warhorse about. Jasper could feel Ser Alton at his shoulder. Ser Garret was yelling something, but Jasper couldn’t make out the words. Terrance stared about himself, terrified. One guard was already down, three arrows spouting from his chest. Many of the other guards, like Jasper, had been felled and were now picking themselves up off the floor. The screams of frightened horses, the panicked shrieks of men and the infrequent whistles of arrows filled the air.

And then their attackers appeared from out of the bushes and rocks, large men clad in course linens and heavy furs. Their faces hidden by broken and dented halfhelms, the near two dozen clansmen rushed at them with wild howls. In their hands they carried an assortment of coarse weapons, from heavy mauls and jagged battle-axes, to sharpened hoes and long lances.

Lord Yohn wasted little time before charging them head on, shouting “Runestone! Runestone!” as he did so. Jasper watched as the Lord of Runestone took the head off the first man in his path, while his great destrier rode over a second clansman, crushing the man’s bones with huge hooves. Ser Alton, unhorsed, had already rushed at the attackers and was now trading blows with a heavily muscled man swinging two spiked iron maces, while Ser Garret and two guards joined Lord Yohn in his horse charge.

Once Jasper would’ve balked at clashing with rough and fearsome men such as these, for even the Ironborn did not put the fear in people as much as the clansmen of the Vale did, but as the wild warriors bared down on him he felt his heart beat calm, felt the blood rush to his head and everything seemed to slow, for the battle joy he had experienced at Pyke had returned. And this time he expected it and embraced it, the madness and the happiness that consumed his every being. Not only did the joy of war run through him, but he was more skilled, he knew, than he had been at Pyke, and stronger too. Multiple victories at squires’ tourneys and his now recurrent victories over Ser Samwell and Lord Yohn attested to those facts.

The first two men who reached him were young, with whiskers upon their cheeks instead of beards. The first man rushed in too fast and Jasper spun away from him, then brought his blade around to slice the man’s ankle. As the man fell, spitting and cursing, Jasper blocked the second man’s hesitant swing. He looked at the man dead in the eye and saw the fear there, and Jasper knew he was dead. The man swung again but Jasper batted it away with ease and stuck his blade fast in the man’s belly. The man’s eyes bulged out and Jasper finished him with a thrust to the throat. With that man dead, Jasper turned back to the first man who was struggling to get up and put him on the ground again with two slashes that carved up his torso.

Jasper met the next clansman that came at him with an overhand swing. The man retaliated in kind and their blades met in a mighty clash, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the air for seconds afterwards. The older man’s greater strength told, as he threw Jasper off his blade. Jasper took a step back and ducked under the man’s next swing and then it was he on the offensive. With four methodical strokes Jasper had the man careening backwards as blood spewed about him. Jasper was saved from dealing the killing blow by a passing guard on horseback who slashed at the man as he passed, his sword taking the clansman at the back of the neck.

Before the body had even reached the floor, Jasper was already advancing on his next opponent, a big, bearded monstrosity who was larger than he was smart and ran onto Jasper’s sword’s sharp point, the tip piercing the man’s stomach savagely before the Baratheon prince twisted and pulled the blade out. Jasper laughed with joy as the man collapsed screaming, his legs kicking and arms spasming with agony.

The next opponent who stepped in front of him carried a large mace and bore an ugly, puckered scar that ran from jaw to hairline. Jasper knelt to duck under the clansman’s first, and only, wayward swing, then brought his sword forth and stabbed up into the man’s groin. Jasper left scar-face screeching and turned wildly, spying a clansman several feet away, standing over the broken body of Terrance Roote. Jasper gave the man no time to think before he stepped forward and drove his sword through the clansman’s skull. Another man charged him, but he lasted no longer than the others before he was knelt at Jasper’s feet, blood dripping from a wound on his head, and shouting in some guttural tongue Jasper did not recognize. If it was mercy the man was calling for, he received none.

Jasper looked around for more foes but the clansmen near him shied away from him, several turning and scurrying back to the shadows from whence they came.

“Cravens!” Jasper shouted after them, mirth and scorn dripping from his tone. The bloodlust continued to pulse through him. “Cowards! Sons of whores!”

Jasper glanced around once more. A dozen or more bodies littered the ground around him, as several riderless horses rode around them. The remaining clansmen seemed to be in retreat, apart from one or two who were still locked in fierce duels with guards. Two guards stood staring at Jasper in awe, but he ignored them as he noticed Lord Yohn and a huge man, wearing scaled leather armour that seemed to be in serviceable condition, were hammering blows down on each other not far away.

“Go and help your comrades,” he snapped at the two guards before running towards his lord.

As he approached, Lord Yohn made to move backwards and stepped on the spilt guts of a corpse. Before Jasper’s eyes the Lord of Runestone slipped and, unbalanced, fell heavily to his knees. The huge clansman roared in victory and slashed his large blade forwards but then Jasper was there, and he caught the sword with his own blade just before it struck Lord Yohn between the eyes. The man turned his large, angry eyes on him and growled.

And then the man shoved Jasper back with all his strength and rushed at him. The man swung his large sword again and again, far too fast, Jasper thought, for a man of that size, and Jasper was forced to parry desperately. He blocked another swing, then another, retreating under the hard swings that could’ve felled an aurochs. The man made to make one last powerful swing aimed for Jasper’s neck, likely trying to take off his head, but Jasper had managed to gauge the man’s speed by then and he danced aside and gave a great back-slice that cut through the top of the huge man’s spine. Jasper pulled it up, slashing open the back of his skull, before he twisted it and ripped the sword free. The clansman used his last vestiges of strengths to struggle to his feet before he keeled over and collapsed, a final bubble of air escaping from his mouth as he breathed out his last breath.

Jasper, panting hard, blinked several times, looking about him. The last of the clansman were slinking back into the bushes and the survivors of the attack were coming together dazedly. One guard was holding the bleeding stump where his leg used to be, screaming. Jasper spied the dead bodies of a further three guards, as well as Terrance Roote’s crippled corpse. Terrance’s uncle Ser Garret was slumped over his horse, unmoving.

“Jasper.”

Jasper turned back to Lord Yohn and replied, “Aye, my lord?”

“You saved my life. I thank you for it.”

Jasper shrugged. “I only did my duty.”

“It was more than that, but let’s not quibble over details,” Lord Yohn said, heavily. He looked at the corpse of the huge man. “Milk Snakes, I think. See the tattoo of an adder over the eyelids?”

Jasper glanced over and nodded.

“Nasty work, my lord,” Ser Alton of the Leaves called as he approached, wiping his face of the blood and sweat with a white bandana.

“Indeed, Ser Alton,” Lord Yohn grimaced. “Ser Garret?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord. His nephew got it, too, and three men-at-arms- Pate, Will and Lem.” Ser Alton spat on the ground. “And Woth, if he even survives, will never fight again, of that we can be sure.”

“Hmmm, very well.”

“Shall we see to the dead then, my lord?” Ser Alton asked.

“Just a minute.” Lord Yohn help up a hand. “I have something to do first. Jasper, get on your bloody knees.”

Jasper opened and closed his mouth, his stomach lurching. He supposed it wasn’t too surprising, after all that, but he still scarcely believed what was about to happen. Unsteadily, he lowered himself to his knees.

Lord Yohn placed his huge great sword, still wet and bloody from battle, on Jasper’s right shoulder and began to speak.

“In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. In the name of the Crone I charge you to be honourable. In the name of the Smith I charge you to obey the Laws of Gods and Men. In the name of the Stranger I charge you to be godly. Now rise Ser Jasper, of House Baratheon.”

o-O-o

Jasper dressed simply, but expensively, in a black doublet of exquisite silk over a woollen white tunic fastened with Myrish lace. Comfortable breeches and long black boots of fine leather completed the look. He disliked most of the more frivolous aspects of the outfit, but Lord Yohn had told him when he left Runestone that he should look his finest when he entered King’s Landing and faced the court for the first time since he was eight.

Though he knew it was hardly appropriate attire he also slipped the crude medallion he had gotten from the dying Riverman at Pyke two years previously over his head and tucked it under his doublet. He then strapped the sturdy steel sword Lord Yohn had gifted him when he was knighted to his side, not caring if some at court disapproved of wearing a weapon in the king’s presence. He hardly cared about some lickspittles’ opinions.

As the ship he was on, a royal drommond called the _Hammer’s Fist_ , tilted around him and creaked noisily, he examined the few chests and bags that contained all his worldly possessions. All he really owned were several outfits of clothing, some training equipment and a few odd personal items. These included a wood carving of a horse with a knight on its back that poor Ser Desmond Coldwater had crafted for him when he was nine, and a small cloth with the black stag of House Baratheon stitched on, which Ysilla had made for him when he’d first arrived in Runestone. Other than those, he had little. Now that he was a knight, he’d have to ask Robert for some gold to pay for armour and horses, though thankfully Lord Yohn’s gift  meant there was no need for a weaponsmith.

“We be ready to dock now, milord,” the voice of a crewman sounded from outside the captain’s quarters, which had been turned over for Jasper’s use during the short journey.

Jasper flattened his hair and smoothed down his clothes once more before he left the room, swaying with the ship slightly as he did so.

Up on deck, the crew were rushing about, working on the final preparations to dock. Before him, lay the sprawling city of King’s Landing, looking much the same as it had when he was eight. Hundreds of low-ceilinged dwellings stood next to taller apartment blocks, while the greater buildings such as the Great Sept of Baelor and the Dragon Pit stood taller than them all, though none could rival the Red Keep’s dominance over the skyline. It’s red-washed towers and thick walls gleamed in the sunlight. Moving his eyes to the city proper, Jasper watched the ever-moving mass of people drift through the narrow streets like crawling ants. He wrinkled his nose as a familiar smell assaulted his nostrils.

Some things never change.

Jasper waited by the fore of the ship as the _Hammer’s Fist_ glided nearer to the teeming harbour. Around them were docked the large, triple-decked war galleys of the royal fleet, as well as a host of other vessels from across the known world. Jasper spied sleek, graceful Braavosi trading ships, purple sails waving proudly, and magnificent Swan ships of the Summer Isles. Galleys and cogs and longships and whalers, he glimpsed them all floating in King’s Landing’s harbour.

They were allowed to dock fairly quickly, likely due to the fact that the king’s brother was on board. When the large ship was moored and anchored, the crew let down the gangplank and Jasper was the first off the ship, enjoying the feeling of solid ground under his feet once more. 

He found Stannis awaiting him at the docks, though he was not alone. Next to him stood the Lord of the Eyrie, Jon Arryn. The lord paramount of the Vale stood a head shorter than Stannis, but the old man’s shoulders were just as broad as the Lord of Dragonstone’s. His now wrinkled face showed the signs of once being comely with an aquiline nose, clear blue eyes and a sharp jawline. The two men were dressed simply, Stannis in black with the occasional shock of gold, and Lord Arryn in the blue and white colours of his house.

Beside them, dressed in the white cloak and silver plate of the Kingsguard, was a young man who Jasper did not recognize. The knight was tall with light-brown hair and a handsome face, and he bore the white cloak of the Kingsguard with pride. At the three men’s backs waited a squadron of Baratheon men-at-arms.

“Ser Jasper,” Lord Arryn greeted with a smile, showing his missing teeth. “Welcome to King’s Landing.”

“I thank you for the welcome, Lord Arryn,” Jasper said, bowing his head slightly. “It is good to see you once more, my lord.”

It was odd, Jasper thought as he greeted the Arryn lord, that he had only meet the man once before, despite having spent the last six years in the lord’s domains.

“You too, my boy,” Lord Arryn responded graciously enough. “May I be the first to offer my congratulations on your knighthood?”

“You are too kind,” Jasper murmured.

“Nonsense, I’m sure it was rightfully earned.”

“I should hope so.” Stannis spoke for the first time. “A knighthood ill-earned in no true knighthood at all.”

“You’ve not changed at all, big brother!” Jasper laughed, ignoring Stannis’s offered hand and instead stepping forward to wrap his elder brother in a hug.

“Jasper,” Stannis grunted in his ear. “You’re taller.”

Still laughing, Jasper released his brother and stepped back.

“And a pleasure to see you again, too, Stannis,” Jasper winked.

“Ser Jasper,” Lord Arryn began, glancing amusedly at Stannis, “may I present the new Kingsguard knight, and leader of our escort to the Red Keep, Ser Arys Oakheart?”

“Ser Jasper.” Ser Arys inclined his head.

“A pleasure, Ser Arys,” Jasper replied. “I’m sure my brother was wise in his choice of protectors.”

“I wear the white cloak with honour,” Ser Arys said. “And I shall protect the royal family to the last breath.”

“Right,” Lord Arryn weezed, “shall we retire to the Red Keep?”

o-O-o

Jasper was glad he was not first presented to the whole court in the great hall. Instead, Lord Arryn had arranged for a more subdued presentation in one of the adjoining rooms.

There Robert awaited him with a host of noble lords and ladies.

His eldest brother greeted him much like he had done at Seagard two years previously, with a laugh and a powerful hug. Jasper gripped him back with a similar strength, smiling.

“Ha, I knew you’d be a knight sooner rather than later, little brother! We must drink to your spurs tonight, eh? Come,” Robert barked, finally freeing Jasper from his clasp, “meet your niece and nephew.”

It was then that Jasper noticed the queen stepping forward, a blonde boy clinging to her skirts. Cersei Lannister was just as beautiful as he remembered, perhaps more so. Her smooth, cold skin was soft to his lips when he bent down to kiss her hand, glancing up at her stunning, perfectly framed face, which had far more effect on him now than it had done when he was eight. As he straightened up, he tried not to gape too obviously at her slender figure and full breasts or lose himself in those flashing emerald eyes.

“Good-brother,” the queen purred. “Why, how big you’ve gotten. I still remember the nervous little boy with wild black hair who greeted me so courteously six years ago. You are a man now, it appears.”

“A man, yes, perhaps,” Jasper replied uneasily. “Though in truth I still feel half a boy, my queen.”

“A natural feeling, I am sure,” Queen Cersei smiled.

“May I say, Your Grace, your beauty is even more astonishing to me now than when I was a boy,” Jasper said, with as much charm as he could muster.

“It is good to see your years in the Vale has not robbed you of your courtesy,” the queen said with sickly sweetness, a wicked smile curling her lips. Queen Cersei turned to the gathered highborn. “Prince of the Iron Throne, Ser Jasper Baratheon, back where he belongs.”

The nobility clapped and tittered appropriately, but Robert waved them to silence irritably.

“Yes, yes,” he snapped, before turning his gaze to the blonde boy. “Go on, boy, greet your uncle.” He turned to Jasper. “Jasper, this is Joffrey. My heir.”

Jasper knelt to Joffrey’s height, glancing at the boy’s Lannister golden hair and green eyes. It was a struggle to see any of Robert in him. He frowned when the boy shrank away from him but forged on.

“Hello, Joffrey,” Jasper smiled. “I’m Jasper, you’re uncle. It’s great to finally meet you.”

The boy regarded him sourly and Jasper glanced around uncertainly.

“Gods, boy!” Robert bellowed. “He’s your uncle, not a damn shadowcat. Stop with this cowardice.”

“I don’t want to!” Joffrey yelled petulantly. The boy shot a hate-filled glare at Jasper and shied away even further.

“He’s just nervous, my love,” the queen told Robert, who had grown red with anger.

“He’s a spoiled little craven, is what he is,” the king grumbled.

“Honestly, Robert, it’s fine,” Jasper interjected. “Perhaps I can spend some time with the boy later, in more… private circumstances.”

“An excellent idea, good-brother,” Queen Cersei said, placing a soothing hand on her son’s shoulder. “In the meanwhile, meet your niece, Myrcella,” she said, beckoning to someone behind her.

A maid stepped forward, carrying a toddler in her arms. The girl could only have been a year old or so, with a shock of golden curls atop her head. She had big, emerald eyes, so similar to that of her mother’s.

“She has inherited your beauty, Your Grace,” Jasper told the queen. “May I hold her?”

At the queen’s nod, the baby was handed over. The girl felt light in his arms, as he rocked her softly. She cooed up at him and he couldn’t but smile down at her.

“She’s a pretty one, eh?” Robert grinned.

“Aye, brother,” Jasper smiled, “You’ll have trouble fighting off the suitors when she is a maiden flowered. Though I assure you I will be there to help, sword in hand,” he said, to the laughs of the attending lords and ladies.

“And I’ll hold you to that!” Robert crowed, taking Myrcella from him and holding her up proudly.

“Brother.” Stannis interrupted the merriment, a woman Jasper did not recognize on his arm. “Allow me to present my wife, the lady Selyse, formerly of House Florent.”

The woman was tall and thin, with pale, piercing eyes. She held herself regally but was not an attractive woman. There was a thin layer of hair on her upper lip and her large ears stuck out from her head at an ugly angle. Her thin lips were constantly drawn into a bitter expression, while her pointy nose appeared to be ill-fitting on her face.

“My lady,” Jasper bowed. “Words cannot express my joy at finally meeting my brother’s wife. I was sorry to miss your wedding.”

“And you, Ser Jasper,” Lady Selyse said, her voice somewhat distant. “You were missed at the wedding, of course. But your duty must come first, ser.”

“Your understanding is most gracious,” Jasper said. “And where is your lovely daughter, my lady? I’d like to meet my niece, Shireen.”

“You can meet my daughter later,” Stannis said, curtly.

Lady Selyse pursed her lips, silent, and Jasper was at a loss over what to say. Thankfully, Robert saved him by bringing forth a host of courtiers for Jasper to greet.

Lord Horton Wendwater, the Master of Laws, and Lord Arthur Bolling, the Master of Coin, men Jasper had meet before, were first. Jasper was surprised to find he now towered over both men, for they had seemed so big to him six years ago. Next came Lord Gyles Rosby, a sickly-looking man who almost fell over in a coughing fit after shaking Jasper’s hand. Lady Harte, Lord Gower, and half a dozen others were all introduced, and Jasper greeted them with politeness as Lord Yohn had taught him. Just like six years previously, he did not feel particularly comfortable with these rich, simpering lords but he would not shame Lord Yohn by acting uncouth. Besides, what was a few spoiled highborn compared to vicious clansmen or fierce Ironborn warriors? He had been a boy six years previously and now, he assured himself, he was a man.

Lord Arryn then presented his wife, Lady Lysa. The former Tully woman’s face was round and puffy, and Jasper caught the unpleasant smell of old milk from her, but she seemed courteous enough. He noticed the Lady of the Eyrie kept one hand firmly around her swollen middle.

“We are expecting the child early in the new year,” she explained to him, both pride and something like fierce protectiveness in her voice.

“I wish you every luck in the birth, my lady,” he said, knowing she had already had several miscarriages and stillbirths. “I’m sure you will have a healthy son.”

“Alright, enough of this!” Robert boomed before Lady Lysa could respond. “Let’s eat, I’m bloody hungry.”

o-O-o

Over dinner, more a feast in Jasper’s eyes, though Robert assured him dinners in King’s Landing were always as big, Jasper was coaxed by Robert into telling the tale of his fight against the mountain clansmen and subsequent knighting. He felt embarrassed telling the story to others, but thankfully there were much less people present than there had been in the greeting hall. Lord Arryn had announced it a family affair so only Robert, Queen Cersei, Stannis, Lady Selyse, Lady Lysa and Lord Arryn himself were sat around the long dinner table. Robert was thrilled with the tale, and Lord Arryn, Queen Cersei, Lady Lysa and even Lady Selyse acted suitably impressed, or at least pretended to be, though Stannis’s expression was stone throughout.

“So, you’ll need swords and armour and horses now you’re a knight, eh brother?” Robert said, taking a large gulp of wine.

“Aye,” Jasper blushed, glancing down. “I don’t mean to be a beggar…”

“Nonsense, you can have your pick of the royal armoury and stables!” Robert roared. “Or the treasury, if you prefer to have your own made. What’s mine is yours, little brother.”

“Although,” Lord Arryn interjected, hastily, “there is plenty to pick from in the royal armoury, Ser Jasper. The treasury is dwindling as it is, Your Grace…”

“No matter, Lord Arryn,” Jasper shrugged. “I’m sure you have fine horses in the stables. I have a sword and as long as I get the coin to refit, there’s sure to be appropriate armour in the armoury, too.”

“Counting coppers again, Jon? Gods, but that is tedious,” Robert groaned.

“A burden of the office, I’m afraid,” Lord Arryn grimaced, thumbing the chain around his neck.

Dinner was pleasant enough after that. Jasper spoke about Lord Yohn and the Vale to Lord Arryn and told the lord about the recent feasts and tourneys held in his lands, for it was clear the Lord of the Eyrie was rather detached from the Vale, to his own dismay. He asked Lady Selyse of Brightwater Keep and the Reach for he had never been that far south and that got her talking far more than she had up to that point.  With Lady Lysa he talked of her uncle, the Knight of the Bloody Gate, Ser Brynden Tully, who he had seen not two moons past; she seemed happy to hear of him. He started to ask Stannis about Dragonstone, but his elder brother seemed disinterested in that subject.

“What have you planned for your future, Jasper?” he asked instead. “Will you reside in Storm’s End or King’s Landing?”

“Er…”

“There’s also the matter of your eventual seat,” Lord Arryn said, his voice grave and serious. “There have been several options discussed by the small council, Ser Jasper, but no concrete solution has been found. There is ample land in the Riverlands or Crownlands, but there are also the ruins of Summerhall, of course, which could be quite the statement, what with the palace’s history as a Targaryen summer home. It must needs be rebuilt, first, however.”

“And then there’s the issue of your future bride,” Stannis stated.

“Marriage!” Jasper spluttered, his lungs feeling oddly devoid of air.

“Yes, my boy, the right marriage could be crucial to the continued prosperity of House Baratheon,” Lord Arryn said. “The wounds of the rebellion have not yet healed in many cases, but the right match for you could help ensure your brother’s reign. Perhaps a Dornish bride…”

“The Dornish?” Queen Cersei laughed mockingly. “Why the bitch would be more likely to slit my good-brother’s throat in the night. You know, lord hand, how they hate us so, down there in that steaming hellhole.”

Lord Arryn eyed the queen neutrally and said, “Some families more than others, perhaps.”

“Yes,” Queen Cersei said, her teeth glittering brightly in the lamp-lit room, “Of course, forgive me, I had forgotten your trip to Sunspear, Lord Arryn. No doubt they said the right words and swore the right oaths, but you would not be the first honest man to be taken in by false Dornish promises.”

“I assure you, my queen,” Lord Arryn said, flexing his jaw uncomfortably, “Prince Doran wishes only for peace between Dorne and the Iron Throne.”

“We shall see.” Queen Cersei turned her eyes to Jasper then, who quailed a little under them. “As for young Jasper’s match, may I suggest a bride from the Westerlands? There are several appropriate brides from House Lannister, or from one of my lord father’s bannermen, if you prefer.”

“I think your father has enough royal matches already, Your Grace,” Stannis grit out.

Queen Cersei’s beautiful eyes narrowed dangerously, but before she could speak Robert brought his meaty hand down on the wooden table before him with a mighty bang, silencing everyone’s lips.

“Enough!” he roared. “My brother has only just returned from the Vale, and already you vultures are setting him up with some cow for life. Enough, I say!”

“But, my love…” the queen began.

“Oh, shut it, woman!” Robert spat. He turned to the Hand of the King. “Jon, let’s put a stop to this future bullshit for now, eh?”

“As you command, Your Grace.”

Jasper sighed with relief. He was not ready prepared for marriage anytime soon, that was for sure.

“I do,” Robert belched, rubbing his stomach.

“Thankyou, Robert,” Jasper said, slowly. “There is time enough to talk of my future later, but first I plan to see my twin once more and relax for just a little while.”

Stannis scoffed quietly at that, but Robert nodded sagely.

“Now,” the king said, “bottom’s up, Jasper. Let’s see how the Vale has worked on your drink tolerance, eh?”


End file.
